Underworld
by Mirrordance
Summary: The Winchesters stumble into the work of a serial killer running loose in New York, as if Dean's post-traumatic stress syndrome, the police, and two Subway ghosts weren't enough to deal with. Set between 4.08 and 4.09.
1. Chapter 1

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**Underworld**

Summary:The Winchesters stumble into the work of a serial killer running loose in New York, as if Dean's post-traumatic stress syndrome, the police, and 2 Subway ghosts weren't enough to deal with. Set between 4.08 and 4.09.

**Author's Note:**

First off, massive thanks to all who read and especially all who reviewed my last fic, _Talk Me Down_. That had been a very unplanned effort for me, and I was very happy it was well received.

This is the long-promised _Underworld_, haha. I'm almost finished writing it, and it's been in this almost-done state for the longest time. I was just afraid to post it, because I felt like it was difficult text. By that, I mean it's a complex plot structured like a novel, with (arguably) over-indulgent descriptions, which is not my usual style for _Supernatural_ fanfiction, and I feel that I haven't had a strong readership base in this fandom to have people trust me enough to read the entirety of it, haha, so I'm very afraid to be adventurous. As I was writing it though (especially Chapter 3), I had such a great time putting in twists and the action that I just thought, what the hell. I had a blast writing it, and I'd just have to toss it to the wind as to if people will like it or even bother to read it, haha... I guess this'll be one of those that are written for the sake of writing. Fics like these are so inconvenient, haha!

For those who read and enjoyed _From Perdition_ though, _Underworld_ is the fic where that scene was plucked from. _From Perdition_ is a part of _Underworld_, and should reappear as an extended version somewhere toward the end of _Underworld_. _Underworld_ is the case the brothers were working on that eventually drove Dean to drugs and alcohol to cope with his memories of hell.

Anyway, without further ado:

" " "

**Underworld**

" " "

_**Prologue**_  
" " "

The Subway System

New York, New York

2008

" " "

The train's headlights had an affinity for the gleaming silver rails of the otherwise dark, grimed tracks. The lights would hit the winding silver rail and follow it, crawling closer and closer toward the peopled platform, heralding the coming of the train itself.

This was the only gentle part of its arrival.

Everything else that followed had a sense of urban violence-- heavy metal screeching to a halt, the grind of machines, the complaints of the aging doors that slid open, the hushed and hurried movements of the people who pushed their way forward, just trying to get somewhere else and get out of there. It was the same thing, everyday. Probably the same faces too, but none of them could tell because none of them really looked at each other.

He was one more face in the sea of faces of the wearily trudging evening rush hour. He had occupied a seat on the train, front-facing, window to his left, hoping no one would sit next to him. He leaned his head against the cool glass, and watched the vandalized pillars and sporadic light bulbs of the tunnel breeze by, rendered blurry and indistinct by the speed.

The train jerked, and then slowed down.

He didn't move, barely even blinked. The change in speed was as physically jarring as always, but hardly irregular. Trains stopped or slowed in the tunnels all the time, for a variety of reasons: traffic, track fires, sick passengers, electrical disturbances, equipment malfunction... happened enough for him to have tired of becoming pissed about it, especially at the end of the day, and even more so at the end of the work week.

The pillars and the lights became more defined, with he slowing of the train. He could even read the graffiti on the tunnel's walls and columns.

_Look_, someone had scrawled on a pillar, and there was a pair of eyes painted beneath it, surreal, because the work looked quite true to a person's eyes except the colors used were too bright, like house paint or neon spray, probably the only ones the artist could get his hands on. The outlines were black, and the iris was a light-catching white, like pedestrian paint.

_Look_, same thing, scrawled on the next pillar, with the same set of eyes.

He found himself wondering who may have drawn that. Who'd have risked life and limb putting stuff like that in the dark of a dank, rat-infested tunnel, standing directly in the path of oncoming trains. There was just no point, no point at all...

_Look_, written on another column, with another pair of eyes.

The train stopped moving altogether.

He was at that odd visual cusp, where the lights inside the subway train were just bright enough to show his translucent reflection against the window, and at the same time, still allowing him to see some of the features of the dark tunnels outside. It was like seeing two things at the same time, with the reflection of his eyes resting at the exact spot as the painted eyes on the column.

"What the hell--" he gasped, sitting back, and his ass pressed against the unforgiving plastic of the seat painfully. The freaking painted eyes _fucking _blinkedat him.

Palms sweaty, heart pounding, he pressed his face against the window, wanting to see better. The eyes stared back at him, as empty and open as they had been.

He caught his breath, laughed at himself a little.

_I'm so fucking tired I'm seeing things_.

He started to feel embarrassed. He glanced at the other passengers in the train, wondering if they were looking at him and thinking he was crazy.

No one was paying attention.

He was relieved, but he wasn't surprised.

"Weird," he murmured to himself.

He shook off the feeling, and settled back in his seat. He laughed at himself again, and at the same time, stared ahead and away from the damned freaky graffiti eyes.

He was just beginning to relax a little, when he was slammed from behind by a wave of pure, _bright _heat, and then there was nothing but total darkness, and nothing but total silence.

To be continued...


	2. Mission, Impossible

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**Underworld**

Summary:The Winchesters stumble into the work of a serial killer running loose in New York, as if Dean's post-traumatic stress syndrome, the police, and 2 Subway ghosts weren't enough to deal with. Set between 4.08 and 4.09.

" " "

**Underworld**

" " "

**1: **_**Mission, Impossible**_

" " "

The Subway System

New York, New York

One Week Later

" " "

The portly European old lady had thin, white curly hair and thick, wide glasses that looked like they were made for ogling. Her English was bad; sporadic, slow and heavily-accented, and the worst of it was that she was surrounded by three grown male adults – her sons, Sam guessed from where he stood about ten feet away - who were even worse at it, trailing her dependently as she smiled earnestly up at a chagrined Dean Winchester.

Sam chuckled to himself, watching his older brother suffer. Dean had on the short-sleeved blue polo of the Transportation Authority underneath a protective, fluorescent orange vest. It really would have made perfect sense for a lost tourist to ask him for directions, except he actually had slim to no idea where he even was. The four tourists and the older Winchester stared dumbly at the admittedly still-confusing map on the station wall.

Sam bit his lip and cherished it a moment more, before picking up his radio – one of the few things that actually worked in the underground ways, and even that had a limited range – and buzzed his brother.

Dean looked right up at him, and Sam had the unsettling but familiar feeling that Dean almost always knew exactly where he was. Dean's brows rose, and he picked up his own radio.

"Bro?" came his older brother's warbled greeting.

"Tell them to take the S train to Times Square," Sam said.

"How the hell did you kn--"

"They're tourists, Dean," Sam said, "That's where they all wanna go."

He heard Dean's impatient growl, and saw his brother put down his radio and relay the information to the woman and her sons. Dean looked comically relieved when they left, not seeing a party of Asian tourists – all wearing the same kind of t-shirt– coming up behind him.

"What would I do without you, Sammy," he said over the radio, still oblivious.

"I guess we're gonna find out, over," Sam chuckled, watching as Dean whipped around when one of the men tapped his shoulder and smiled at him earnestly, giving him a polite little nod.

Dean looked at the party incredulously, and then craned his neck to find another group standing patiently behind them, this time an American family wearing "I Love New York" caps.

"People," he said, voice loud over the din of the passing trains, looking exasperated and slightly panicked, "I am here to keep your station safe. If you keep asking me questions about where you're supposed to go, I can't do my job! Now if you have tourist-y questions," he grinned evilly at Sam and gamely pointed his way, "That's _his_ job."

_Nice_, Sam thought, looking at his brother sourly as the tourists shuffled his way, _Shouldn't have called him out after all._

" " "

"Oh man, I feel like a freaking vampire," Dean groaned, walking beside his brother up a flight of marble stairs, headed out of the subway station at the end of the workday, "I need some sun, dude. We came down here before she rose, we go out when she's gone. What the hell is up with that?"

"So you think there's a case here?" Sam asked his brother, ignoring the complaint primarily because he was feeling sour himself, and also because Dean's been harping on about it since, typically-impatiently, lunchtime hours and hours ago.

"I _know _there's a case here, bro," Dean said, dodging several passers-by as they walked. The station was buzzing with activity, and the brothers wove their way through the people making their way around, probably on their commute home, "I just don't know what we can do about it."

"What do you mean you don't know what we can do about it?" Sam asked.

"Well what are you doin' askin' me all the questions, anyway?" Dean snapped back, "You were supposed to be digging around too. Snipey, snipey, Sammy."

"Well I was busy herding the damn tourists you kept throwing my way," Sam said, irritable, and actually making Dean smile in satisfaction.

"Yeah, you would be."

"Dean," Sam said, in a warning tone.

"Okay, okay," Dean whined, "Don't have a cow, drama queen. I asked around, okay? The accident a week ago? They said the train operator said he didn't see anything out of the ordinary."

Sam snorted, "He pulls an emergency stop, was so panicked he didn't bother radioing it in, ran like his tail was on fire out of the tracks, right? An oncoming train collided with the one he left behind, and now five people are dead. And he's saying he saw nothing?"

"'S what they said he said," Dean said with a shrug, "He ain't here, was suspended while the investigation's ongoing."

"Huh."

The brothers Winchester walked on, thoughtfully. Sam wrinkled his nose at a funny, earthy smell that drifted their way. He glanced behind him, and found a hulking, homeless man, just laughing to himself. His face was thin and scraggly, lines all dragging down to the ground. He was made bulky by his clothes, just layer after layer after layer of them, and he was dragging along stained, full-to-bursting plastic bags of miscellaneous, questionable content. He looked like an old turtle, really, like he had on everything he owned, and he probably did.

It was one of the things Sam didn't like about the city: the urban poor, many of them a little bit _off_ the program. It was one more thing to not-like about a city, at any rate. The Winchesters were both country boys at heart, pretty much. Especially Dean, Sam thought; give the guy an open road, line it with trees, and make sure the houses and buildings aren't too high up to block the horizon because that wacky, unreachable line always made the world feel wide open. At this moment, he understood the appeal keenly.

Sam walked a little bit faster and out of the smelly man's way, and Dean, likely subconsciously, matched his brother's pace.

_I wanna get out of here_, Sam thought, suddenly wishing for a case that didn't keep him underground for half the damn day too.

Sam sighed. "What the hell is going on here, man. Four subway accidents in the last month, all on roughly the same area, no mechanical issue, all seasoned operators, and only the first guy said he saw a woman standing on the tracks go _through_ the train. The rest are all pretty much like your guy."

"Scared shit-less and covering it up," Dean finished, "Yeah."

"The first guy got fired, right?" Sam asked, "They thought he was crazy? Maybe that's why all the rest are keeping quiet."

"So what do you think she is, this girl standing on the tracks?" Dean asked, "Standard ghost, death echo...?"

"I don't know," Sam said, "The hauntings started a month ago, and there haven't been any instances of anyone getting run over or dying in the tracks in any other way in that time. It doesn't fit."

"No instances of anyone getting run over _that we know of_," Dean emphasized, "Maybe the Transportation Authority's covering something up, and she's pissed."

"Conspiracy theories now too, Dean?" Sam asked, smiling a little, but his eyes were coolly unconvinced.

Dean smirked at him, "You know, The Man always keeps you down."

Sam snorted. "Just for the sake of keeping the options open, then fine, all right? Maybe she's a ghost or the death echo of a girl run over by conspiring transit employees, whatever. I mean, it didn't have to be the subway employees, someone could have killed her in the tunnel in another way."

"Or someone killed her topside and dumped her body down there," Dean pointed out, exaggerating a shudder, "Either way, bro, none of this helps us much, 'cos both these options point to her body or some part of it being somewhere in the tracks. If we wanna salt and burn her... well, it's gonna be a bitch looking for that corpse. Creepy though, huh? Literally millions of people pass by here every day, and there's a corpse rotting 'round the corner or just below our feet."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "Poor girl. I can't say yet if she's intentionally hurting people, but at the very least she's a distraction every time she comes out, right? Everyone's lucky the death toll from the accidents is so small, considering how many people ride the subway everyday. Besides, it'll be good for her too, you know. If we can get her out of the tunnels."

"To the damn light?" Dean snorted.

Sam shrugged, noncommittally, not getting into this heaven-argument again. It was obviously and appropriately one of Dean's favorite ones lately.

"There's a couple of ways to get rid of her," Sam said, turning his attention to something more productive, "Like you said, there's salting and burning--"

"Also like I said, gonna be a bitch finding that body," Dean said with a wince, "About 700 track miles, dude. Almost 7000 subway cars. Round up to 500 subway stations, 27 lines-- what?"

Sam's brows were raised, impressed. "Nothing."

"There was this statistics poster in the break room," Dean shrugged, looking mildly annoyed and more than a little embarrassed, "Whatever dude."

"No, bro, keep goin'."

"That's it," Dean lied flippantly, "That's all I know."

Sam rolled back his eyes.

"We can limit the search area," Dean said, grudgingly at first, before he got steeped back into the job, "So far she's only haunting a section of the 42nd street stations, right? So we start with that. But it's still so freaking long, dude. And it's not just the size of the area."

"Yeah," Sam agreed with a wince, "The two of us can go down that tunnel and never come out."

"We can get lost," Dean enumerated, "We can get run over or side-swiped by a train. We can get eaten by rats. We can get kidnapped by the _Mole People_."

"That's an urban legend, Dean," Sam said.

"Our fricking life is an urban legend, bro," Dean pointed out, "Point is, maybe there are freaky mole people living down there with webbed feet and red eyes in big wacky communities like the Morlocks, maybe not. Whatever. Either way, there are human beings living down there, Sam. There are criminals, crazies, drug addicts, and even some simple homeless people. We can get robbed or nabbed or worse, down there. We can step on needles and catch STDs or whatever. I ain't goin' down there looking for some chick's body in the damn dark."

"We don't have to go body-hunting if we do what we do for cremated people," Sam pointed out, "You know, talk her into the light."

"Seldom works," Dean said, frowning, "You gotta have some sort of connection usually, right? We don't even have a name, bro, and I don't know if we're ever gonna get one. All we have is a description from the only guy who admits to seeing her, a guy who was fired because he may have been crazy. To get her name, we can match up his description to tunnel deaths, but like you said, the timeline's not right. We can match the description to missing persons reports if her body was dumped and not yet found. That's a ton of people, Sam, especially in New York. If, _if _we get her name from all that, then we can contact her relatives or something. But like I said, I don't know if we're even gonna get that far. Dude, we got nothing. It's a mess. We might as well search for bullion down there."

"Some sort of a binding spell," Sam suggested, uncertainly. The Winchesters haven't used it before on the troubled spirits of humans, that's for sure. It felt fundamentally wrong, enslaving these restless ones further than they have already been enslaved by their situations. "It'll keep her harmless. She can be very dangerous, Dean, no matter what she once was. No matter if she's a victim."

"I'd rather not," Dean said, thoughtfully.

"I know me too," Sam sighed, "But I had to say it. How about if we work with a psychic? Maybe they can make a connection and tell her to bug off."

"They talk funny," Dean mumbled.

"Well get over it," Sam said.

"I know, bro," said Dean, "This mother ain't fooling around. Whether or not she's intentionally killing people, the accidents she causes are on damned trains, man. The first three accidents were lucky no one died but that fourth one nicked out five people. We gotta clean this shit out."

"I'm calling Bobby," said Sam, "Find out if he knows a good psychic around here."

"Tomorrow we go shake out some info from all the drivers of the other accidents," Dean said, "I'm sure we'll be more persuasive than the last guys who interrogated them."

"Yeah, I bet," Sam smirked.

" " "

Queens, New York

" " "

Bobby wasn't a fan of city psychics, especially the ones from New York.

"It's an expensive place," the older hunter had grunted over the phone, "They can't help but charge you for everything and charge you over twice as much as the usual guy. And just so's you think you're getting your money's worth, they do all this theatrical stuff. Sometimes even the good ones have to pull your leg a little, just so's they can charge you extra and they can eat. Maybe I can get you someone else in the tri-state, Sam. Lemme get back to 'ya."

Sam sighed, and sat next to his older brother on one of the twin beds. Dean was liberally munching on an over-sized pizza slice. On _his_ bed, Sam noted, slightly irritably, except he was also resigned about Dean's more annoying habits and also inextricably endeared by them lately. Besides, his older brother's been to hell and back to save his life, and that kind of rightly trumped everything else. And as long as he didn't get any food stains on Sam's bed, of course. A kid brother could only take so much.

Sam sighed again. Expensive place indeed. The case they were working on was at the very heart of the city, and they had to settle down a good half hour away in a rundown motel in Queens, the only place they could afford. That meant leaving the Impala behind most of the day, because they couldn't afford the exorbitant parking spaces in the city either, aside from the fact that they were usually hard to come by.

Worst of all, that also meant Dean was extra grouchy and difficult about the job, because they had to leave his precious car behind over extended periods of time, not to mention both of them actually now owned subway Metrocards, _like a bunch of frickin' commuter civvies_, Dean had grumbled, just to get to the city and around it for the work.

"Bobby says he'll get back to us on the psychic," Sam reported.

"'Kay," Dean shrugged, before adding, disconcertingly casually, "I really, really hate cities."

"Yeah me too," Sam said, chuckling a little, snatching a mushroom off of Dean's slice. Dean jerked off his younger brother's arm half-heartedly, but let him get away with his spoils.

"Pizza box is over there, doofus," Dean growled at him, taking bigger bites faster, as if threatened by Sam snatching more of his food away, "You acquired some nasty habits in the months I've been away."

Sam smiled wanly. He probably had. Actually, he was pretty sure of it. There were large things, like developing his 'talents' behind his brother's back and despite his brother's dying wishes, but there were trivial things too. The memory of those days still brought him a dull ache, even if Dean was now back by his side. The large changes felt dream-like, unreal,_ detached_, so he was able to live with them_. _It was the small things that truly hurt, because they were normal, accessible things. Things that emphasized the everyday-ness of his loneliness. That his solitude was regular, and from then-on unchanging.

Asking for a single room in a motel for the first time after his brother died, for instance, he remembered that all too clearly, the feeling that he was going to bawl right in front of the sleepy-eyed receptionist in some nameless town. Absently grabbing a bag of M&M's at the grocery store, before shakily remembering to put it back, no one was gonna eat it anymore. Standing inside Radio Shack and looking at iPods, weighing between the betrayal of shoving it in the Impala and painfully listening to Dean's stupid mix tapes and living with all the memories of Dean singing to them (and Sam realized after he died that he had memories of Dean singing to_ each and every one_ at one time or another)_. _It hurt, even as Dean constantly mentioned _being away_ like he just went to a different part of the country or something.

A brutally-half-eaten slice of pizza was shoved into his line of sight. His eyes crossed as he tried to make sense of it. Damn things really looked like a mess up close.

"Fine, be that way," Dean said, pretending to be obtuse, "You can have it, all right? No need to be all mopey."

Sam looked at him with a quirked brow as he took the offering.

"Thanks."

Dean grinned at him with a disgusting mouthful of food, relieved to have him back in the world of the living, apparently. His older brother swung his legs over the bed and grabbed himself another slice, this one twice as big and thrice as loaded.

" " "

Brooklyn, New York

" " "

David Calling was a fifteen-year veteran of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, having gone from driving buses around the city to operating subway cars. He was a thin, neat man; patrician hair, a barely-there gray-peppered beard, short-cropped and matching the shade of his light skin, almost-not noticeable on his face. He was a widower, with three grown-kids who had settled in other parts of the country. He kept a small, clean apartment in Brooklyn, living off of his pension after he was unceremoniously fired for having, apparently, lost his marbles.

Sam and Dean stood by his door, sharply dressed in suits that screamed "FBI." Dean had picked up his kid brother's affinity for frickin' _costumes_. In the older days, with just him and his dad on the job, they got by with guts and nonsensical jargon, but Sam tended to make an art of the con (and got away with it more too). Maybe it was a remnant of Sam's elementary school days, when there had been a few dabbles in theater, Dean's favorite having been the play where his kid brother played a grouchy broccoli. His dad thought Sam's preoccupation was bordering on ridiculous, but damned if the two older Winchesters didn't tear up a little, watching him fuck up his lines on stage. Or maybe costuming made Sam more at ease with their admittedly illegal activities, the clothes completing the belief that he was someone else. Or maybe it was just another manifestation of Sam's OCD; everything had to be completed to a certain level of perfection. _Whatever_. Either way, Dean got into the costume-thing too. In his own words, it made the job easier, and more fun.

"Are you David Calling?" Sam asked, and Dean noted, impressed, that his tone was a bit lower and more clipped too. A little bit cheap-sounding, but very appropriate in that way also. His brother was a damned _artist_. It took a certain level of distance – like a jaunt to Hell, for one – to notice and appreciate things like that.

"Who's asking?"

"Agents Tyler and Perry," Dean put in smoothly, "FBI."

The requisite badge-raising, done in subconsciously perfected unison.

"Like that guy in the TV show and all the movies."

Dean kept himself from rolling back his eyes. More like the two guys from Aerosmith, but _whatever_, _never mind_.

The door opened wider, "That's me, agents. What can I do for you?"

"We want to talk about the accident a month ago," Sam said, following him inside his apartment. The space looked as neat as the man, and Dean noted the unfairness of how people thought a decent guy like this had lost his mind or worse, this guy actually believing them.

Calling stiffened noticeably, and his shoulders stooped in some kind of defeat. "It was all my fault."

Dean was reminded of many other people they've run into in their line of work, thinking they've lost their minds. Or, if one were to reach real deep and much closer, he imagined how his own father must have felt when their mother died the way she did, how alone he must have felt, if he had ever doubted his eyes and his mind.

"Tell us what you think happened," Sam said, almost gently, and Dean wondered if his brother was thinking the same thing.

"I've been seeing things," Calling said, "It was all my fault."

"Tell us what you _saw_," Dean amended, _Not what they told you to think_.

Calling looked at him suspiciously, catching the distinction.

"I've been taking medicine for it," Calling said, "Makes me feel all funny, but it calms me down. M' wife died a month ago, you see. Maybe that's why I've been seeing things. I'm glad they got me out of the job. I really coulda killed somebody. Why's the FBI bothering with this anyway?"

Dean glanced at Sam, before turning back to Calling. "We're investigating a possible terrorist connection. Yours was the first accident of a string that goes up to four now."

Calling's eyes widened. "I'm no te--"

"That's not what we're saying, sir," Sam said, soothingly, "All we're saying is that the MTA in New York City has an average weekday ridership of what? 7.5 million people? Accidents like the ones that have occurred over the last month that endanger the American public and American interests are of paramount importance to the FBI, and anomalies like this deserves attention at a federal level."

_That's what the damned costume is for_, Dean thought, proudly.

"There is no need to be ashamed, Mr. Calling," Dean implored him, "We've gone through the incident report you filed, through all the evaluation that followed it. We know you saw a girl on the tracks. We know your claim was investigated, right down to forensic samples being picked up from the site and on the train you were driving, showing zero signs of human life having been, say, run over. We know you insisted on what you saw. We know you underwent mental evaluation. We know you were laid off shortly afterwards. We know everything there is to know on paper. What we need right now is just things, as you saw them. Firsthand."

"Undiluted," Sam added, "Exactly as you remember them. Leave nothing out, you never know what might be important."

Calling gulped. "M-my therapist said I should stop d-dwelling on it. And-nd that p-people shouldn't en-enable m-me b-by ind-dul-dulging my fantasies."

Dean winced. Poor bastard. More and more, he knew that this guy must have honestly, honestly seen something, and was suffering with reconciling what he knew to be absolutely true with what society was trying to force-feed him.

"It's for your country," Dean said with a dry mouth, wanting to say more, not knowing precisely how.

Calling nodded, and ushered the brothers to sit on his sofa. "Okay."

He offered them a candy jar. Mini chocolate bars, _nice_. Dean grabbed himself a KitKat, and then almost immediately regretted the disruptive, crunching sound. He resolved to finish it fast and move to the quieter Milky Way next.

"It was like any other day," Calling began, "I didn't feel funny or nothing. Lost my wife a week past, sure, but it was a long battle, we saw it coming, you know. She left nothing unsaid, I was almost happy for her, her suffering ending at last. They gave me a coupla weeks off, as long as I needed, but I just wanted to get back to work. I liked my work, and liked how it kept my mind off of things. I had what I always had for breakfast, took the same route to work. Everything same-like."

"So you can safely say that there was nothing off about your state of mind at the time of the incident?" Sam asked.

"Yup," Calling replied, "Nothing different. I went through the day like always. Checked in, grabbed my train, took it around. Same route as I've been assigned to the last few months. Day in, day out over the last few months, everything the same, right 'til I took a leave when my wife was dying, but nothing was different when I went back to work."

"Anything weird ever happen down there before the incident a month ago?" Dean asked.

"Nope, nothing," said Calling, "Nothing weird."

"No one getting run over," Dean enumerated, "No one dying, no one missing, nothing like that?"

"Nope."

"So absolutely nothing out of the ordinary," Dean summarized, "Up until you saw the girl in the middle of the tracks."

A brief pause. "Yes."

"You hesitated," Sam pointed out.

"Because they told me no one was there," Calling said, "No one _was_ there."

"Mr. Calling," Sam said, patiently, "As we advised you earlier, forget about all the evaluations after the incident. Right now, all we are concerned with is hearing exactly how you saw things, all right? So tell me, with as much detail as you can remember, what did she look like?"

"Blond," Calling replied, his voice almost a whisper, and his eyes blanked as if reaching deep into his memories, "All nice-American-like, you, know? Blond like nothing can be naturally blonder. It was long, down to her chest; kind of grimed, in clumps, like she's been digging around in the tunnels, but nothing down there could have killed a color like that. M'wife was a blond."

"How old do you think the girl was?" Sam asked.

"Like m'wife when I met her," Calling said, "Couldn't have been more than twenty-five. Clear brown eyes, also like m'wife."

"Could you have been seeing your wife?" Dean asked.

Calling's eyes flashed angrily, "That's what they all say, but I'd know the damn difference."

"Tell us more," Sam encouraged.

"Too thin," Calling went on, his glare fading, "She was lean, like you can see just muscle and bone. She was pale too, almost gray. She looked like all the other tunnel-dwellers, you know. The ones who haven't seen the sun in a long time. They get hurt in the tracks once in awhile, I heard, so I just thought she was one of the squatters down there. She was running from somewhere, and then the headlights found her and she froze. I heard it was like that, when tunnel-people get run over. They just _stop_, like they couldn't believe it could happen to them. Or maybe they don't see light a lot, surprised 'em, I don't know. I thought she was one of them until my damned train went _through _her."

"You said you thought she was like the other tunnel dwellers?" Sam asked.

"You know," Calling shrugged, "Some call 'em the Mole People. To me, they're just homeless, trying to find some kind of shelter. There's a lot of space in the tracks for people who don't have anywhere else to go. Many stations have been built and forgotten, or built and sealed over with all the improvements over the years. Whole stations, whole platforms, whole rail lines, floors and floors underground, boarded up, no longer used. There was a really good find back when they were constructing one of the trains some decades ago. The workers found an abandoned station with a large waiting room with chandeliers and a grand piano, totally forgotten by everybody. You also got abandoned bunkers once used by construction workers, or storage rooms for coal, back in the old days when they were used for power. There's a whole lotta space down there, agents. And thousands of people living in them."

"Outside of the urban legends?" Sam asked, his inextricable scholarly-side fascinated now, "Really?"

"For real," Calling affirmed, "Look up your homeless statistics in the city, or talk to the outreach guys who still go down there, trying to help people or convince them to come up. There's been a lot of clean-up since the story came out in the nineties, but I'm telling ya, there's still a good number of tunnel people down there, and we see them, once in awhile. I thought the pretty girl I saw was one of them, but like I said, my train just went _through _ her, so maybe she was... once upon a time."

"And now she's what, a ghost?" Dean asked.

Calling gulped, "She's either that, or she was all in my head. She was all in my head, probably."

"Ever had hallucinations before?" Sam asked.

"Nope."

"So blond hair, brown eyes, twenty-five and thin," Dean said with a wince, "Anything else?"

Because a description like that left them with, what, a fourth of the damned population...?

"Dirty blue jeans," Calling said, "High on her waist, neat-like, not how the other kids wear it. She was wearing a small shirt that might have fit her better if she wasn't so thin, used to be white. No shoes, no socks. Her wrists looked like they were gnawed through, and so did her ankles around the limbs, you know. Like she was tied up somewhere and ran away from there."

"That's why you kept insisting you saw her her, huh?" Dean asked, "Even when everyone was saying you probably didn't see anything."

"I probably didn't see anything," Calling said, his voice shaking again, and again, as he sank into the conflict of his reality, the stuttering returned too, "B-b-but I had to t-t-tell them. Someone had-d t-to look into it. She looked like, like, sh-she n-needed help."

" " "

The brothers stepped out of the apartment building, and Dean was rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Hm?" Dean looked at him, "Yeah."

"You sure?" Sam pressed, "You spent a lot of time in the bathroom in there."

Dean stared at him in disbelief.

"What?" Sam asked.

"You're really creepy, bro," Dean said, shaking his head in amazement.

"Dean..."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, waving a weary hand at Sam, "I'm fine. Poor bastard. He's starting to believe he's crazy. I found his meds. Swapped them with my Tic-tacs."

Sam choked on the breath he was taking. "Dean--!"

"He needs to go easy on the hardware, bro," Dean said, drawing out the Tic-tac container from his pocket and shaking it at Sam, before slipping it back, "Somewhere in that head of his, he knows that he's not crazy."

"He'll taste the mints, dude," Sam pointed out.

"It'll keep him clean for an hour," Dean argued, "While he goes somewhere for a refill, maybe he'll figure out he's fine. We just gotta give him a shot."

"You're out of your mind."

"That's what they said about dad, you know," Dean said, wistfully, "Right up 'til he realized he just had to learn to put up and shut up."

" " "

They spent the rest of the morning and afternoon tracking down the other drivers. They brought the Impala this time, since the road from Queens to Brooklyn didn't have to go through the driving nightmare that was Manhattan, and parking in Brooklyn wasn't as impossible. Besides, Sam thought that their first sojourn into the subways the day before had been a traumatic nightmare for him, because Dean was just unbearable in a crowded commuter train.

_I can't bring you anywhere_, Sam had hissed at him in dismay, because he was complaining and shifting a lot. The thing about Dean was that he could suffer quietly through illness and injury but not through inconvenience.

_No one should be brought anywhere in the subway!_ Dean had retorted, _I'm dizzy, Sammy._

_No you're not_, Sam insisted, _It's all in your head_.

_I'm dizzy!_

And so on.

He's never been happier to be back in the car.

They visited the most recent driver, the very guy who had inadvertently caused the deaths of five people. He was on suspension during the investigation, and Sam and Dean served him the same lie about the feds being concerned about terrorism. He perforce opened the door for them, but that was the extent to which he was as forthcoming as David Calling had been.

"Like I said," MacLean repeated, his eyes jerky and nervous, "I didn't see anything. I felt an ache in my chest, I thought I was getting a heart attack. I had to get out of there, get help--"

"You got checked inside-out," Dean said, a little impatiently, "They didn't find anything wrong with you, Mr. MacLean. You're strong as an ox."

"I'm just telling you what I—"

"Do we have to remind you that the situation has escalated to a federal level?" Sam snapped, "That you could very well be obstructing a very important investigation with national consequences that goes beyond the five people who died on your train?"

The man winced at the mention of the deaths, and at the clearly implied possibility of more.

"I didn't-- "

"See anything," Dean finished for him, looking at him sidelong, measuring, knowing from experience that he was close to breaking, "We know. Off the record, Mac. Toss me a bone here, just so's I know I'm going in the right direction. I won't cite you in the report at all. Tell me: what _didn't _you see."

"Wh-what?"

"You didn't see anything, right?" Dean affirmed, "So what _didn't_ you see?"

"I..." the man stammered, looking at Dean like he had lost his mind, "I _didn't_ see a woman on the tracks..."

_Yahtzee_.

" " "

Queens, New York

" " "

The rest of the drivers had also given in to Sam's coercive jargon and Dean's pledge of confidence. It was an insane version of good-cop-bad-cop, Sam reflected, reeling with the realization that in that scenario, the threats had come from him and the convincing had come from Dean.

_Didn't I used to be the good cop_?

Dean was still eating pizza on Sam's bed, making tonight feel like a replay of the previous one.

"Dude, are you still eating pizza?" Sam asked.

"Best thing about New York," Dean said with a shrug, "Gonna have as much of this while I'm here, right 'til I get sick of it."

"_I'm_ sick of it."

"It's a cruel world, Sammy," Dean said, lips quirking, because Sam regrettably realized he sounded like he was four, "So. We got a confirmation then. Calling's not crazy. There's a girl on those tracks, man. Any word from Bobby?"

"He's got a psychic upstate," Sam said, "She's pregnant though."

Dean winced, "Wouldn't want her anywhere down there. Or anywhere near us, for that matter."

_Yeah_, Sam thought, miserably. Their last psychic had her eyes burned out, after all.

"There's a couple up in Boston," Sam added, "All of whom want nothing whatsoever to do with us, after what happened to Pamela. Same thing with a few in New Jersey and Connecticut."

"They all know what happened to Pamela?" Dean asked, not adding, _They all know what happened to me_?

"It's a small, tight world, bro," Sam sighed, "Bobby didn't mention anything about the angel-thing though, so that's probably not out there yet, but a psychic's eyes burning out? Can't hide that."

"Now we're like a bunch of lepers," Dean blanched, "Like this job wasn't hard enough to begin with. How about Missouri? She's a ways away, but she never really minded us."

"Bobby said he'd get in touch with her," Sam said, "But she's not that young, Dean. I don't want her in the tunnels with us."

"We might not have a choice," Dean pointed out, reaching for the remote control and turning on the TV, "You wanna go down the tunnels tomorrow, ask 'the Mole People' if they know this ghost?"

"I don't think they'll be too friendly with us, Dean," Sam said, "At best you get homeless people, who are fairly reclusive in general. At worst we get drug addicts or criminals."

"Is Sammy scared?"

"Shut up," Sam snapped, "I'll look into it."

"So ah... business otherwise done for the night, right?" Dean asked.

"I guess," Sam said, looking at a clock on the wall, "Kinda early."

Dean's brows rose, "What, you a party boy now?"

Sam snorted at him, "I think I wanna grab a nightcap."

"I think I saw a bar near here," Dean said enthusiastically, turning off the TV smartly and getting to his feet in a quick, smooth motion.

" " "

Everything was the same and everything was different since Dean got back from hell. Drive with Sam in the Impala. Call in for pizza. Check into a motel. Hit a bar. Go on a case...

God's soldier was always on-call, but Dean made time for his other occupation too, which was John Winchester's road-warrior, a monster-hunting, ghost-busting bad-ass. Dean figured if he was straying from his supposed path, an angel can put him back in line with no problem whatsoever; they dragged him out of hell, for crying out loud, couldn't be too hard to tell him to drop a case and do something else.

He glanced at the pool tables, spotted a few reckless, half-drunk idiots he can take on blindfolded later. He and Sam weren't in dire need of funds yet, but it might be fun to take them on. In the meantime, he wanted to get his brother inebriated, go see what's in that head of his lately.

Sam went straight for the hard stuff, and Dean suddenly wondered, _who was getting who drunk again_?

Sam raised the shot in the air, "Good having you back, bro."

"Nine lives, baby," Dean grinned, taking the shot on. The damn thing burned down his throat and warmed his belly, "Nice," he gasped.

Sam just grinned back and tossed his drink, almost casually, making Dean's eyebrows raise. This wasn't the first time his brother had aimed to get wasted, right? He's seen it in a haunted hotel smack in the middle of a job, Sam scared shitless about his future. He's seen it in a bar in daylight, Sam scared shitless about his inability to save Dean. He's seen it in a motel room at Christmas too.

"_Let me know if it needs more kick."_

_Dean chugged the eggnog and nearly got plastered._

_"Nah, we're good."_

_And Sam was just drank throughout the night, dainty sips that made his drink seem non-alcoholic, except Dean knew better. Sam drank, distractedly, seemingly oblivious to how strong it was_.

Sam had taken after their father and Dean on the drinking thing after all, Dean realized. Probably even more after Dean had died.

Sam gamely ordered one more round.

Dean was getting a little bit nervous. He thought he could drink Sam under the table and pick his brain. He never thought he might be wrong or worse, that it could be the other way around.

"You wanna take it easy, there, junior?" Dean joked, after Sam chugged the next shot, and raised his hand for one more, "Wouldn't wanna have to drag your ass back to the motel."

Sam smiled at him wanly, and Dean had the very disconcerting vision of his brother having done this many times before, with no one looking after him. Maybe he didn't need Sam to talk to know what was going on, or what had gone on while he was in the Pit.

"So when I was away..." Dean said, clearing his throat.

"Yeah," Sam replied, knowing exactly what he meant.

It was Dean's turn to chug the next round, unthinking, fearing the things he would hear.

"You said you tried everything," Dean said.

"And I'm still sorry," Sam said, quietly, looking down at his glass, "I still weirdly wish it was me, Dean, the one who got you out."

"I'm glad it wasn't."

"I'm not," Sam confessed with a self-deprecating laugh, "You barged in to see me, right? After you came back? You were angry, 'cos you thought I cracked a deal somewhere. I was... I was embarrassed that you thought it was me, that you thought I was good enough. Even after I failed you, it was always you thinking I got you out somehow, and I had to say it, I had to say... I hadn't been good enough. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about, bro," Dean told him, "We're all good, right? I'm out the fire, you're off the hook. And like you said: god-if-he-exists is kind-of on our side."

"And the devil against us."

"There's that, sure," Dean shrugged, "But that ain't so new, is it? Evil is evil. And we've been working against bad odds all our lives."

"Kind of like now, huh?" Sam asked, "Really bad odds?"

"Yeah."

They ordered another round. Dean was getting disarmed and tipsy, and he was becoming very disappointed in himself. He's had, what? Three? Four shots? Was this damned body purified of his vices too, along with his purpose? Or was he just a corpse just getting used to alcohol again?

"So ah... hell," Sam asked, "I know you don't want to talk about it, I know... but... I mean... do you think about it like, all the time?"

"It pops up in flashes," Dean admitted, and blamed the candidness on the liquor, and blamed it on the soft spot he had for earnest eyes beneath a messy fringe. Sam looked at him, perfectly expecting the truth, wanting to reach out as best he could, help him bear the memories of hell, be with him now because he couldn't have been there for him before.

"Weird colors," Dean elaborated, "The heat. And I can hear screaming."

"You dream about it," Sam said, with certainty.

"Yeah," Dean winced.

"You used to sleep different," Sam said, "You moved more. The sleep was lighter, but better, you know? Now... now it's like you're in deep, but it's worse. And then the other times, you just... clock out, you know. Like no one's home, total shut down. Scares the crap outta me."

Dean's eyebrow quirked, but he let it be. If anyone would know, it would be Sam, after all, and he couldn't take that away from him.

"How about you?" Dean asked, scratching the back of his neck, uneasily, "Still having nightmares?"

"New ones," Sam said, shaking his head in dismay and as if it could relieve him of the memory. It didn't take a genius to know that invisible hell hounds and his brother screaming, and blood and guts on the pristine floors of suburbia now joined the already-impressive repertoire of a beautiful blond burning on a ceiling.

"I'm sorry, I guess I should drop this," Sam said, shaking his head at himself in dismay, and Dean could actually see him visualizing kicking himself.

Dean considered. "I can't... I can't say a lot, you know that. But you can talk about anything you want to, Sammy."

Because he realized his hell had been Sam's hell too. If he forced Sam to shut his mouth about Dean's experience, he perforce was asking his brother to start keeping things to himself also.

"I can drop it tonight," Sam resolved, glancing at the pool tables, "I picked up a few more tricks when you were away."

"Naw!" Dean exclaimed, in laughing disbelief, "No, Sammy! Say it isn't so!"

"I had to sleep somewhere, I had to eat, buy ammo," Sam grinned, eyes alight, "I'm really, _really _good."

"Impress me, dude," Dean dared.

"I'd do anything for you, bro," Sam said, with more truth there than the top-layer of the situation warranted, and it warmed Dean's heart.

"I know, Sammy."

" " "

Queens, New York

" " "

They woke up late the next day.

It's a tough job, after all, and even hunters needed their sleep, especially after a scandalously productive night of earning several hundred dollars from playing pool. Sam didn't feel bad about cleaning out the other players. Dean was back, Dean was happy, and Dean was grinning like a proud mama.

_That's m'boy, haha!_

Sam had missed that to an inarticulable level.

Sam got the coffee pot going, turned the TV on with the volume low. Dean was bound to wake up to the smell of the coffee anyway, and they had to get moving soon.

The news was on, a special feature about some crazy daredevil hanging upside down in the city. What a nutcase. Pregnant actress lashes out at paparazzi. Bail-out negotiations in the financial industry, now that's some _really_ scary shit. Local coed goes missing--

Blond hair, brown eyes, twenty-five, thin... the photo kind of just appeared on the screen.

"Dean!" Sam slapped his arm awake, making his brother sit up, eyes alert, knife-wielded.

"The girl!" Sam exclaimed, pointing at the TV just as the news went into a Charmin' commercial.

"Dude," Dean told him, distastefully, "What the hell? You seeing things too?"

To be continued...


	3. Wonderland

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**Underworld**

Summary:The Winchesters stumble into the work of a serial killer running loose in New York, as if Dean's post-traumatic stress syndrome, the police, and 2 Subway ghosts weren't enough to deal with. Set between 4.08 and 4.09.

**Author's Note:**

Hi gang! Massive thanks to all who read and most *especially* to all who reviewed the prologue and first chapter of Underworld. A more extensive thanks and response to any of your concerns will be posted soon, but I figured the best way to express my thanks might be posting Chapter 2 instead!

I'm sure you know from my note in the prologue that I really wasn't expecting a lot of feedback, so I'm *extremely* grateful, and am hoping you continue to enjoy my rambling litte story. I'm almost done writing it (the usual sign is when I start writing my equally-rambling Afterword, haha), and should be posting the rest of this fic in the next few days.

Thanks again, much love to you guys, and as always, am welcoming your feedback.

'Til the next post!

" " "

**Underworld**

" " "

**2: **_**Wonderland**_

" " "

Brooklyn, New York

2008

" " "

They went back to David Calling's house, bearing a printout of the picture of missing college coed Alice Frye that Sam had pulled from the Internet after convincing his brother that he wasn't insane. Calling apparently had gotten over the Tic-tac incident, because he was spaced-out again, but lucid enough not to let them in or even look at the photo, and most importantly, not to let Dean use the bathroom.

"He's back on 'em," Dean said, distastefully, as the two Winchesters walked back to their car.

"Well what did you expect, Dean," said Sam, "Not everyone copes like our dad. Actually if you think about it... very few people do."

Dean shrugged, "I was hoping he'd wean himself off, I guess. Poor bastard."

"So what?" Sam asked, "Ask the other drivers if this is the girl they saw?"

"To start," Dean affirmed, "Then we hit the tunnels, see for ourselves if we can spot her. No need to bug her relatives and ask them to go with us and try to send her into the light just yet."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "No need to have people thinking we're nuts until we're sure it's the same girl. Besides, maybe some of the street charities or disadvantaged transients in the station can recognize her."

Dean chortled as he slid into the driver's seat of his car. "_Disadvantaged transients_?"

Sam's mouth quirked in amusement. He opened his mouth to explain, except Dean raised a hand up to stop him.

"Dude," Dean said, "I freaking know what it means, all right? You wanna go talk to some street people, whatever. But who the hell talks like that? Geez."

" " "

The Subway System

New York, NY

" " "

They visited the other drivers, who had all confirmed that Alice Frye looked like the girl they had seen in the tracks. And then they drove back to Queens, leaving the Impala behind at the motel parking lot before going to the city by subway. They had to buy another Metrocard at the station because Dean left his behind, likely in pieces in the trash can of their room.

They rode a downtown train, and Dean slouched miserably on the plastic seat next to his younger brother, shifting constantly.

"Dude, stay still," Sam murmured at him.

"I was _so _not made for public transportation," Dean grumbled, shifting again, making Sam roll his eyes, "I'm getting dizzy."

"You're delusional."

The subway car stopped, and a rush of people entered. Sam offered his seat to a senior citizen, and stood up and held onto the handle bars overhead instead. Dean smiled half-heartedly at the old woman who now sat next to him, and then immediately scowled when he looked away. Sam watched, amused.

It was interesting how the doors opened and a rush of all sorts of people would come in. New York was very vibrant, a multi-cultural place just bursting with life. The territories were also pretty distinct; for instance, it seemed to Sam that most Caucasians hopped off the last stop in the City before the train went to Queens, and most of the passengers left on the train were Asian or Hispanic. Families and groups of tourists always headed to particular places Midtown, like Times Square or 5th Avenue. The edgier, younger sets would go to the stops in Soho and Union Square. He wistfully noted that some stops, like the ones on 8th Street or West 4th, were frequented by college students.

The subway car stopped again, and again, more people came inside. Dean rose up right away after spotting a pregnant woman with a young son in tow. He offered her his seat, and gripped a handle bar to stand next to his brother. She beamed up at him as she sat down heavily, and then kept her arms around her little boy, who looked up at Dean shyly. They looked very prettily alike, making him smile back.

"Thanks," the pregnant woman said, "Say thank you, sweetie."

"Thanks," mumbled the little boy, as instructed.

"Guarding mommy and your baby sib, huh?" Dean asked him.

A corner of the kid's mouth quirked up, and he nodded. "M' baby brother."

"Yeah?" Dean's brows raised, and he sounded enlightened, looking up at the pregnant woman, "Two boys, huh? You're in trouble."

She laughed, and shook her head at him in amusement.

"So you doing a good job?" he asked the little boy.

"'Course," he replied certainly, but glanced up at his mom for reassurance. She ruffled his hair affectionately, and he squirmed to avoid her hands.

Dean just grinned.

"Are you hitting on her?"

Dean looked up at the sour comment, and the speaker was a pale woman with sharp eyes beneath black, plastic glasses standing near them. Her hair was long and dark, worn plainly, and her clothes were conspicuously _asexual_. Sam ran a hand over his face, trying to keep from laughing. Dean was going to butt heads with a distinctly urban invention, _oh yes_. The intellectual, angry white chick. _Nice_.

"No," Dean replied, uneasily, "Lady, she's _pregnant_."

"So you think pregnant women are unattractive?" the woman snapped. They were starting to gather attention in the subway car.

Dean glanced at Sam, disbelieving the situation, looking genuinely confused. And looking for a rescue. Sam just grinned and shrugged at his brother.

"I didn't say that," Dean said, simply, keeping his cool as his brows furrowed and he tried to figure out where all the antagonism was coming from, "It just means she's probably attached."

"'Cos all pregnant women have to be married, right?" the woman said dryly, "'Cos she needs a man to provide for her, right? She can't take care of herself? Is that it?"

Dean's brows furrowed all the more.

"You know what they say about men hitting on pregnant women?" she asked him, "They're so lazy they don't wanna make their own kids."

Dean smirked at her, "I couldn't possibly be too lazy for _that_."

"Too lazy for what?" the little boy asked.

Sam let out a helpless laugh. Dean reddened. The pregnant woman pressed her palms against her son's ears. The angry white chick's stop came up and she left the train.

Dean looked at Sam in complete and utter confusion, and _What-the-hell-did-I-do_ was clearly etched on his face.

_We should do this more_, Sam thought fondly, clapping his brother on the back, reassuringly, _Get Dean socialized._

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean asked Sam.

"Girls like that, bro," Sam laughed, "Girls like that can smell guys like you a mile away."

"Guys like me?"

"Don't ask."

" " "

They went to three homeless charities asking about Alice Frye before sitting down to dinner in a lonely-looking, window-less Kentucky Fried Chicken on one of the subway stations. It was underground and oppressive, but the chicken was fresh and flavorful, so Dean was happy.

"So no one remembers this broad, huh?" Dean asked, munching, making unattractive happy sounds at the gravy.

"Yup," Sam affirmed, "And if she was ever one of the tunnel regulars, the social worker would have remembered her. You know what she said... New York's street homeless are disproportionately African-American or Hispanic, and more than eighty percent of them are male."

"So if there's a pale chick, that there's two-for-two," Dean said, "Someone's bound to remember her, if she was down there. The charity people don't know her, but they don't know everything there is to know about these people though. What, we go the next step, talk to the _disadvantaged transients_?"

"Very funny, Dean," Sam said, playing with his salad, "You know these guys aren't going to be like the people we usually talk to. They're cliquish and guarded and they have lots of secrets. I told you I'd read up on it and I did. It takes a long time for them to want to cooperate with strangers. Writers on the subculture had to live with them for weeks before they got any useful information. The social workers had to have worked on their rapport for months before they could be trusted."

"So what?" Dean asked.

"I'm just saying," said Sam, "We can't do what we usually do. Pretend to be authority figures? They'd just kick our asses. Pretend to be one of them? It'll never fly. Pay them? We don't have a lot. Our options are severely limited, bro. It's gonna be a tough one."

"And this is new because...?"

"It's not," sighed Sam, "It's just that..."

Dean's brows rose. "What?"

"We don't quit on jobs, right?" Sam asked.

"Hell no," Dean said, peering at him closely, "Sam, what?"

"Nothing," Sam sighed again, "So. We start talking to homeless people tomorrow morning?"

Dean stared at him for a long, measuring moment. "Sam."

"I just got you back, dude," Sam said, looking embarrassed and chuckling a little as he looked away, and his salad was looking like a mushy mess by now, "I'm kind of... kind of..."

Damn, but he looked like a kid again, and Dean was tempted to tell him to stop playing with his food, tempted to embarrass them both.

"I'm kind of," Sam laughed at himself, self-deprecating, "I'm kind of just getting used to... worrying, you know, again."

Dean looked at him in confusion, before realization dawned on him.

"Worrying about you," Sam explained in a breathless rush, "Worrying about... about _surviving, _for that matter_, _for the first time in a long time. That make any sense?"

"Yeah..." Dean replied, tentatively, nervously, because again, and this was an odd realization to have in the middle of a Kentucky Fried Chicken, he was getting a glimpse of what his brother had been like when he was away.

_Not worrying about surviving, huh._

_Damn it, Sammy._

"And this case... you know what you said about getting monsters but people are just crazy?" Sam added, "Down there's crazier than anything we've seen up here. I don't mean to generalize, I don't. But this is how the numbers run and this is far as we know: down there, we got substance abusers, fugitives from the law, a bunch of screwed up intellectuals tired of life, psychotic war vets and god knows what else. If that's not bad enough, it's dark and it's cold. It's a maze that even contractors can't figure out sometimes. There's disease-carrying rats, discarded needles stained with drugs and STDs, there are the damn trains coming and going, there's a ghost, and then you have live electrical wires on the rails--"

Of course _that_ had to be the crowning point; Sam hated anything that had to do with the possibility of Dean being around the possibility of getting electrocuted again.

"It's really dangerous infrastructure," Sam finished, "Real urban dangers, Dean. And no phone signal to call for help. This is probably our most dangerous terrain yet. We don't know the turf, we don't know the rules, and because they're not supernatural, we can't hurt these people."

"So what do you want to do?"

"Maybe this case is better off another hunter's," Sam said, "Psychics who don't want to work with us might be willing to hook up with them to talk to the dead girl and get rid of her, without anybody having to go down there, looking around for a corpse in the dark. Maybe this case shouldn't be ours, since the best way to solve it is out of our hands. So it's not quitting, not really. It's just strategic."

Dean frowned, "But you know we've been working a lot lately precisely 'cos that last rising of the witnesses thing dented hunter numbers some, right? We wouldn't have driven halfway across the country for this if someone else was working it. Hell, I wouldn't be staying in a motel in Queens and taking the fricking subway every the morning just to work a job if someone else can handle it."

"I'm just saying we gotta give it a shot," Sam shrugged, "Maybe someone else somewhere else is free to work this out. I'm gonna ask Bobby at least, okay?"

Dean's frown deepened to a scowl, "Sam, Winchesters don't hand out the burger to someone else after knowing it smells funny."

The colorful language made Sam smile a little, "Like I said, it's all about strategy, not surrender, or asking someone else to risk their lives for us. The right kind of people can work this out faster and better without anyone getting hurt. I'm not saying we should stop. We can work as best we can, while we can. But if someone can do a better job faster, we gotta give it a shot, okay?"

Dean's eyes narrowed at him in thought. Sam never backed down on anything, not in the last, oh, _lifetime _that Dean had known him. But when Sam was the one who was dead, Dean was damned ready to let the world end, right? Sam backing out of one job where they were justifiably not the best choice was fair enough. Besides, he _wanted _Sam to start worrying about surviving again too.

"So it's all about strategy," Dean said.

"Yes, strategy," Sam insisted, emphatic.

"Fine," Dean said, ripping into another piece of chicken, "But the timeline doesn't change, all right? Tomorrow, we go. If someone can take over, we just fill them in."

"That's all I wanted," Sam said, satisfied, already drawing out his phone.

" " "

Sam had almost forgotten how it was to work with someone again. Consultation and consent, after months of just doing whatever it was he thought was best. Whatever he wanted. Whatever was needed, even to the point of blood and brutal injury. It was hard to start caring again about not-dying. Or getting someone else killed.

Things have to be taken away from you sometimes, for their worth to be magnified. He thought he had cared about his brother already. He thought he already loved him blind. But when Dean died, the months of silence had torn Sam apart, like his life was leftovers of the old one when Dean had been around, all the best parts gone, and the stuff left had pushed him to places he thought he would never otherwise have gone to.

"Ready?" Dean asked him.

"As ever," he murmured, looking around the busy station.

It was risky, going by different aliases and cover stories all on the same job. But they needed to get inside the MTA and so they pretended to be employees. They needed information on the accident and so they pretended to be the FBI. Neither persona would be welcomed by the street homeless of New York, so they settled instead for bestselling writers Tyler and Perry, this time, not bothering to change the name to keep themselves in line. They just had to be extra vigilant about keeping their noses more-or-less clean.

They accosted a middle-aged woman just outside the station, holding a rusted grocery cart filled to capacity by smeared bag after smeared bag of questionable content beneath her shaking, gloved hands. She was calling out to people randomly, asking most for money, insulting some.

"Hey," Sam greeted her.

She looked at him suspiciously. She wanted attention, but apparently not his. "Hey yourself. You gonna give me some money?"

"I got a dollar if you can give me a decent answer," Dean said, raising up the photo of Alice Frye, "You know her?"

"What do you mean a decent answer?" the woman asked, wrinkling her nose, but at least giving the photo a good look.

"If it's true and it gets me somewhere," Dean said, "So?"

"Dollar first."

Dean frowned, but handed her a bill. "Well?"

"No, don't know her," the woman said, "Never seen her in my life, god's honest truth."

"So where does that get me?" Dean asked her, slightly miffed.

"In the direction of someone else to ask," she answered, smiling toothless-ly and cleverly at him. She turned back to her previous activity of calling out people.

"Who can help me?" Sam asked her, undaunted.

"What's it to ya?" she snapped, "I know her about as far as I see her face on the papers, that's all. Us homeless got nothing to do with her missing. But you always look at us. Never look when we ask for help, always look, when things start missing. Like wallets and white kids. We're just trying to live, man. Got nothing to do wit' her missing."

"Anyone else I can ask?" Sam asked.

"Everyone's gonna tell ya the same thing," she said, dryly, "But if ya got more'n a dollar, go look for Lewis. He knows everything about everybody. Anyone y'ask will know him. And dontcha be offering him less than a twenty, or you can go on and kiss your behind goodbye, and that's god's honest truth too. What're you anyways? Don't look like no coppers from around here."

"We're writers," Sam said, and Dean let him say it because he sold it better.

She blanched at them. "The last time anyone wrote about us, everyone got all excited and cleaned the place up real good. Lotsa us butted outta the tunnels. But some don't mind getting the story out there. Yeah... You boys wanna talk to Lewis."

"Thanks," Sam said, walking away from her, Dean in wary tow.

"That didn't feel helpful," Dean commented under his breath, "And man, these guys want hard currency upfront, don't they?"

"Actually you'd be surprised," Sam said, thoughtfully, "I read that their information networks are pretty good. Many of them know each other. And at least we got a name, something to start with, instead of just asking everyone we see."

Dean shrugged, "So. 'Lewis,' huh?"

"Yeah," Sam said, "This subculture is really interesting, Dean. You know a good percentage of street homeless in the City have post-secondary and even post-baccalaureate degrees? Some of them got into drugs, or simply just lost their marbles a little, got plain-pissed about life up here."

"So they decided to hang out with the poor and the substance-abusers and the fugitives," Dean pointed out, "I think that's losing more than a little bit of your marbles, bro. But you're right, that's weird."

"You know the weirdest thing about all this?" Sam asked, looking wistful.

"What?"

"The two of us," Sam said, "We're kind-of homeless too, right?"

Dean didn't quite know why it hurt him, but it did, so he hid a wince behind a malicious smile and said instead, "Yeah, you'll fit in real good out here, Sammy. 'Cos you've lost your marbles too."

" " "

They interviewed enough homeless people to first, get Dean to the point of whining about a shower and second, convince the brothers that this Lewis character was more and more the man they should be looking for, since his name kept being dropped as a reliable source of information. Still, absolutely no one they had spoken to knew Alice Frye, or precisely where Lewis was. The Winchesters were given several of his usual haunts, before they stepped into Grand Central Station and finally ran into the man himself.

Sam wrinkled his nose in helpless dismay, upon realizing that he and Dean had actually run into Lewis before.

_Oh man_, it was the strange guy laughing to himself from their first day of work in the subway. This half-here-half-somewhere-else character who smelled funny was the best source of information they could get? Were they kidding?

Dean glanced at Sam skeptically, also seemingly wondering if they've been played.

"Lewis?" Dean asked, apparently sensing Sam's reserve and stepping up, like Sam had missed someone doing for him.

"Who's askin?"

"Tyler and Perry," Dean said, "We're writers."

"You're lying."

Dean looked at Sam dryly. No one ever believed it, coming from him.

"Ever heard of _Lights of the Tower_?" Sam asked, picking words out randomly.

Lewis was gonna bite...

"Or the hugely successful _Attack of the Wildman_?" Dean added enthusiastically, and not at all helpfully.

"Fucking cons!"

Sam sighed, "We hit three bestselling lists in the last two years. We're doing research on the tunnels. Everyone says you're the man we should speak to, and all you gotta say is yes or no. If not, we'll find someone else."

"I know everything going on down there, yeah," Lewis confirmed, "But I ain't talking to no shithead cons."

"So that's a no," Sam said, coldly turning to Dean, "I guess we should just go--"

"Princess can't take no rejection," Lewis leered at Sam, "I'm just playing. You gotta play sometimes. 'Sides, I need a pack of cigs."

Dean drew out the photo of Alice Frye, "You seen her before?"

"Thought you were writing a book on the tunnels?" Lewis asked, suspiciously, "What's the missing coed gotta do with that?"

"We think she went under," Sam filled in smoothly, especially since Dean was already opening his mouth, "It's the prologue, you know, the springboard for the novel. We're beginning it with a missing girl who went down to the tunnels to have a different life."

Lewis looked them up and down, in a strange, new light. "What day is it?"

"Thursday," Sam replied, "Why?"

"Perfect," Lewis said, "Meet me here, this spot right here tomorrow, midnight. Get me a pack of cigs, twenty singles, and bring me a snack, okay?"

"What's tomorrow?" Dean asked.

Lewis just shrugged at them and grinned. "Wear warm clothes and thick shoes."

" " "

It was their first honest-to-goodness major shopping trip since Dean got back from Hell. Sam wondered when that part of their lives would be out of his head, when he would stop thinking about firsts again. He grabbed a shopping cart at K-mart, with serious intent to fill it.

"Take it easy on the shopping, bro," Dean reminded him, "No car today, don't forget. You buy too much and you're carrying 'em on the fricking subway on your own."

"He's taking us down there I know it," Sam said with certainty, ignoring the reminder, single-minded in knowing that not only would Dean help him anyway, he was also probably going to get the heavier bags, "We gotta be ready."

He grabbed the thickest boots he could find. He grabbed thick socks, thick jackets, thick everything. He grabbed items for their first aid kit, including this immunity-boosting dissolving pills that he overheard two mothers in the OTC aisle swear by. He capped off all their purchases with the largest pack of M&Ms he could find, making Dean grin. It made him feel as if one of the parts of himself he thought he had lost had warmed and glowed, reminding him it was still inside and afire.

" " "

The Subway System

New York, New York

" " "

John Wincheser's boys had a habit of being on-time. Midnight was a _bitch_, but midnight it was, and Sam and Dean stood at the subway station, sweating in clothes that were just a little bit thick for the season.

Homeless Lewis wasn't quite as disciplined. 12:30 am and still he was nowhere in sight, and Dean was impatient and antsy, and Sam was irritated.

"This is what we get for taking the word of a homeless guy," Sam muttered.

Dean looked at him with a raised brow, and he reddened, slightly. Yeah, Sam was pissed. The insult fell from his mouth before he could think about it. Can anyone else say _bourgeoisie_?

Dean stiffened beside him, and Sam's senses pricked too.

"We're being watched," Dean murmured.

"How do you figure?" Sam asked, barely moving his mouth, "Is it Lewis? I can't tell yet."

"I think so," Dean said, stretching his arms over his head and pretending to yawn. Sam knew better; this was Dean warming up for some action.

"My eleven your twelve," Sam said, "What do you wanna do?"

"Yup, it's him," Dean said, "It's Lewis, shrewd bastard. Stay here and look pretty, you be the rabbit. I'll grab him. Unless you wanna toss for it? He smells kinda funny, I'd rather not touch the dude."

"I'm sure you got it covered, bro."

"Right," Dean said wryly, "Gimme a minute." He raised his voice a bit higher, saying, "Man, I gotta go to the john. Meetcha back here in five."

"You got it," Sam said, flatly. Dean just grinned at him.

Sam pretended to busy himself with his cellphone, as Dean vanished behind some pillars. His senses heightened, listening and watching from the corner of his eye.

_There you are_, he thought, seeing the middle-aged man watching him, a beat before the hulking figure suddenly and forcibly slipped out of sight behind a wall. Sam smiled to himself, and coolly walked over to the corner where Dean was effortlessly pressing the leering man against a wall.

"Hello, Lewis," Sam greeted him.

"You ain't no damn writers, that's fer certain sure," Lewis breathed, the stench of his breath and its proximity to his face making Dean wince.

"Whatcha doin watchin' us, huh?" Dean asked, "We were supposed to meet up, you should have just up and said hello."

"I had to see if you were all right," Lewis said, "I wasn't gonna go down the damn tunnels with two weird-ass strangers. You might rape me."

Dean looked at him flatly, and released him.

"Like I said, you ain't no writers," Lewis said, with unwavering certainty.

"So what the hell are we then?" Dean snapped.

Lewis looked at the brothers thoughtfully. "It don't matter, really. Down there, you're nobody but who you are, when you are. I'd take fucking writers for now, sure, whatever. But lemme tell ya, down there, you can't hide who you are. I think you boys're all right. You can come on down with me."

" " "

The three men left the subway station and went up to the surface. Dean puzzled about it, but you don't grab a guide and then constantly doubt them and ask questions. So he and Sam followed along, as Lewis led them several streets away from the station, and into an alley.

"Hey Lewis," Sam said, tone deceptively light, Dean noted, and also oddly threatening. The alley was slim, between buildings, nothing there but emergency exit doors and trash.

"Hm?"

"You're not scamming us, are you?" Sam asked, "You're not turning tricks or anything, right? 'Cos that would really piss me off, you know."

Lewis looked at him with a raised brow. "What? No. I won't mess with you, not with you two packing like that."

"What?" Dean asked.

"You got pieces on you, dude," Lewis said, "I'm not fucking blind. Who goes anywhere that packed, anyway? I told you, I had to watch you first. Guns, knives, Jesus... writers, my ass. Betcha didn't even bring a pen and paper."

Dean snorted at him. He was actually right.

They went deeper into the alleyway. The passed by a few other people, some of whom waved at Lewis, though most of them just looked up at the three men blearily, often seemingly seeing past them. Discarded clothes, makeshift box-homes, rusted cart after rusted cart of a miscellany of things lined the vandalized brick walls. People were quietly huddled around small fires burning beneath holed pots and suspicious food, or zonked out in solitary, limbless corners, arms in rubbery tourniquets, drugged out of their minds. There were passed-out drunks too, and some who just sat by looking defeated and lonely.

The sight was depressing. There was just an overwhelming sense of fatalism about it. Like, people just going through the motions, waiting to die. But the smell... god, the smell in the alley was downright _offensive._ And this was not, at all, from the perspective of plain vanity, or quite simply never thought that anything human or living could smell like this. Dirty smoke, sweat, blood, unwashed clothes, urine, fecal matter, diseased, rotting, flesh...

Dean shuddered involuntarily, catching Sam's worried eagle-eye, which he ignored. _Damn _this smell. _Damn it to hell_.

_Hell_...

He shook harder, and breathed sharply. He wanted to breathe with his mouth instead, but he had a feeling he'd have ended up tasting the damn air and that would just be worse.

"Dean?"

He jerked at a vision of blood and quick white flashes of light. And the smell of hell that drifted across elusive memory, familiar, and so hideously accessible. He remembers this smell. It was probably the strongest memory he's taken home with him.

_Hell_...

"Dean!"

"What?" he asked his younger brother, irritably.

"You okay?"

"'Course," Dean said, plainly. The shivers ceased, abruptly.

The three of men stopped before a row of grates on the ground. Dean remembered that Marilyn Monroe scene in the movies, with her skirt flying in the breeze when the trains passed by below and the wind was displaced. The metal grates shook beneath their feet, and the lights of the trains below blinked as a subway train passed by.

"There are many ways into the tunnels, y'see," Lewis explained, "You can tear off a grate and just slip inside. 'Course the emergency exits are always open, it's illegal to close 'em. Then there's the ol' jump into the tracks when the trains aren't coming, then run up 'til the tracks grow wider and you don't have to be standing in the way of the trains."

"Run?" Dean asked.

"The tracks are usually narrow by the platforms where people board the train," Lewis explained, "Then they grow wider the deeper into the tunnels you go. If you don't run and you don't get to the wider areas before the next train comes into the narrow area, you won't even have enough room to kiss your ass goodbye. You get swiped, and that's that."

He sat back on his haunches, and lifted up one section of the grates. Dean was surprised to find a raggedy rope ladder leading downward.

"It's a well-used entrance," Lewis said, smiling at them with his sick-colored teeth.

Sam and Dean each drew out their flashlights.

"Oh you don't wanna do that," Lewis advised them, "Those'll make you blind down there. Let yer eyes adjust, you'll see more."

The brothers glanced at each other. Dean decided to do as the Romans do on this one, and pocketed his handy torch. Sam frowned, but did the same thing.

Lewis slipped into the hole first, lowering himself down the ladder with surprising agility for an old-ish, misshapen, under-nourished man. He looked like he was coming alive in the dark, the deeper he went.

In contrast, Dean glanced at his brother, and noted that though Sam looked as determined and focused as always, he was also very tense and uneasy.

"Sammy?"

"Nothing," Sam replied to the unspoken question, "You all right?"

"Just caught a thought," Dean said, "This one's a weirdo job, huh? And that's saying a lot."

"Yeah," Sam winced, "I mean it's stupid, right? They're just people, up here and down there. And this is just a tunnel."

"That's what's bugging you," Dean said, as he tested the ropes. Sam was sufficiently heavier than Lewis, he had to make sure it would hold.

"What do you mean?"

"All of this...," Dean replied, distractedly. He peered into the darkness below, and saw Lewis wave them down.

"All this is categorically natural, you know?" he continued, stepping back and motioning for Sam to go ahead, "_Normal_. But it's just as dark and just as bad as other things we've seen. People shouldn't be living like this."

"I'm kinda relieved fixing this isn't our job," Sam said, nodding at his brother and slipping into the hole, fingers gripping the ropes tightly.

" " "

Dean landed on the uneven, heavily-littered ground. So far, everything was moving according to his and Sam's meager expectations; the tunnel was damned dark, damned cold, and damned dirty. The floor was, as advertised by the books Sam had asked him to at least gloss over, dirtied with used needles, shards of glass, and household trash - proof that people really were living in these dismal conditions.

"Lemme tell you about the blonde," Lewis said into the dark, as Sam and Dean followed him. They walked parallel to the tracks, a few feet away from the live rails. Rats scurried alongside the three of them, bursting in and out of holes in the vandalized walls. One of them ran right smack into the live rail, and the sickening smell of singed flesh and the screeching sound the rat made in its final convulsions as it was electrocuted made the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand on end.

_Singed flesh_...

He could hear screaming again.

"The hell-" he exclaimed suddenly, feeling a hand reach out and grab him in the dark, pulling him toward the walls that smelled unmistakably like urine. It was Sam, he realized, who had pulled him to a safe distance away from the rails, because a train was coming.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam hissed at him, "Pay attention, damn it."

Dean's face warmed and reddened in the dark. That was just Sam being worried, and consequently, this was also Sam at his most annoyingly tactless.

"I was gonna step back," Dean muttered at him, "You're so excitable."

But he was shaking again, and while the tunnel was cold, he was pretty sure the clothes Sam had picked out for him could get him all the way to the summit of Mt. Everest. This wasn't just the damn weather. Maybe he was getting sick. Or at the very least, sick of this place. He had a feeling, and he hated this more, of course, that this was hell catching up with him.

_Damn smell..._

There was just something very visceral about smells, he figured. Like how he could spot the perfume his mother used, _just like that!_ Or how the smell of the car's interior could assault him so tremendously with things that he forgot he remembered. There was his father's aftershave, Sam's shampoo, the fleeting scent on their clothes of their favorite, cheap-assed generic detergent. Rain on grass, shower-fresh soap on a _real_ woman. The smell of coffee and bacon in the diner of a place he's never been to before... Scents struck the gut inexplicably, inspiring odd memories, pulled from some deep hole in his brain. Apparently, hell wanted a piece of the action now too.

_Damn smell_.

He pulled the collar of his coat up to cover half his face. It made breathing harder, but he could live with that if it also filtered the sickly damned smell of this place and all its accompanying sickly damned memories.

"She's real pretty," Lewis said, "You know some girls are so pretty you just wanna up and clip their wings off. That's what someone did, seems like."

"You think someone saw her topside and dragged her down here?" Sam asked.

"Something like that," Lewis replied, "I've seen her several times, only on weekends. Not when she was alive, mind. But she kind of just bursts out from somewhere, looking all crazy and cut up, scarred, bruised hands, you know? Like she was tied up."

"You're saying you saw a ghost?" Dean asked him, carefully.

"Yeah," Lewis replied, "I got no problem believing in that or saying it flat out. God knows I've seen my share of fucked up stuff down here."

A pair of headlights appeared in the near distance, and crawled ever closer toward them, heralding the arrival of yet another train. The three men stood as close to the urine-stinking walls as it passed them by in a blur, before continuing their conversation.

"The homeless down here live everywhere they can find a good hole or even just a wall against your back," Lewis explained, "So you know no one's coming up behind you to hurt you. There's old bunkers, old storage sheds, old platforms and stations that people just forgot. Sometimes," he pointed upward, and the brothers looked at steel catwalks not unlike the fire escapes of many a New York building over their heads, right above the train tracks.

"Sometimes people live up there too," Lewis said, "Trains a-buzzin' right beneath yer feet. Once, there was this guy, he used to paint some really good stuff, an artist. Someone beat him up bad, just worked him over, before finally bashing his head in. Fucking mess. No one found him for days, and when the smell got too bad we up and finally just called the cops. I hate cops, man. When they found him, nobody cared."

"He haunts the tunnels too?" Sam asked.

"I've never seen him," Lewis said, "But I was in a jam once, tripped out of my mind, you know? Back when I was doing drugs, that is. I'm clean now." Dean sensed it was a lie, but let it slip.

"I had to crash somewhere," Lewis said, "And I found his hole, where he used to live. I knew it was his because the walls were painted and everything. It was a nice place, and no one would take over it because of how he died, but like I said, I had to crash somewhere and I had no choice. So I stayed there, and the damned pictures he painted on the wall were moving, you know. _Moving_. Colors into shapes and into faces and into dead faces, and blinking eyes," he shuddered, "At first I thought it was funny. I was like, 'this shit I have in my blood is fucking awesome.' So I went back to the same guy to buy the same awesome crap, but it never happened again anywhere else. When I went to his place sober and the damn pictures were still moving, I busted out of there and never came back."

"Anyone ever reported seeing the same thing?" Sam asked, more out of curiosity than anything. It obviously had nothing to do with the case they were doing. Sam just got really interested in a miscellany of things by nature.

"Not to me," Lewis replied, "But then you gotta start asking yourself why even homeless people won't live in his hole, right? No one would touch that place, I tell you. But that's just one story in a mil, huh? We even got one guy down here, and everyone's like, convinced he's," he lowered his voice fearfully, "the devil."

Dean snorted. "Yeah?"

"Red eyes and all," Lewis guaranteed him, "This voice that just gets you inside. And he knows stuff about you no one's ever supposed to."

"How about weird people with webbed feet?" Deana asked, "Mole people-people. Ever seen any of them before?"

"Heard of them, sure," Lewis admitted, "People say they're white as ghosts, have webbed feet, can see in the pitch-dark, run large communities in the deepest tunnels, have kids who have never seen daylight, all of 'em with a wacky tendency to eat other people. I don't think they're out there really, but damned if I'm not happy I've never ran into 'em if they were."

The three of them stopped by a metal ladder, leading up to one of the catwalks hanging over the train tracks. Lewis went ahead, agile as a cat. Dean tested the bars again, and then waved Sam over to move ahead of him. His younger brother looked at him with a fond expression.

"What?" Dean asked, testily.

"Nothing," Sam shrugged, moving past Dean and climbing up.

"Best seats in the house," Lewis explained, when Dean finally joined them on the rickety catwalk. Lewis sat down with legs dangling over the railings. The brothers remained on their feet. A train whizzed by beneath them, its roof missing Lewis' shoes by a negligible distance.

Sam and Dean cautiously watched the rails below them.

"There she goes," Lewis said quietly, nodding toward a stagger-running lithe figure emerging from somewhere along the sides of the tunnel, before breathlessly stopping right in the middle of the tracks and stopping before an oncoming train. She looked just like Alice Frye in her missing person photos, and looked exactly like how the drivers the brothers interviewed have described her, right down to the rope burns.

"Alice!" Sam called out, leaning against the railing, as if it would bring him closer to her.

"Alice!" Sam called out again, louder, even as the sound of the oncoming train was starting to become more pronounced, drowning out his voice, "Alice Frye!"

"What's your brother doing?" Lewis asked, looking at Dean with wide eyes that were screaming _You shitheads are crazier than I am_.

"Not my brother," Dean muttered, a fairly lame attempt at keeping up their personas, even though apparently, some observant people could readily tell what they were to each other.

Alice Frye just held her ground, and Dean watched the expression on her tear-streaked face. It was a weird expression, not stunned or surprised by the headlights coming her way, nor afraid, really, but expectant. Her chest heaved as she took breath after breath, as if she was trying to steel herself for the impact.

_Suicide_? Dean thought, arrested.

Her mouth was moving in a repetitive manner, looking like she was saying '_Come on, come on, come on_...' She closed her eyes as if waiting for the blow, which was, apparently, taking its time coming, because she opened her eyes up again and looked absolutely devastated that the train hasn't taken her yet.

"Alice!" he called out himself, even as he adroitly drew out his shotgun, "You gotta cut this out, all right? You're hurting people."

She didn't hear the Winchesters. She glanced the way she came, and her eyes widened fearfully. She tossed her glance between the direction she had come and the oncoming train, and back and forth and back again, as if trying to make a decision.

"Alice!" Sam yelled, before turning to Dean, "That train's coming and she's just standing there."

"She always just stands there," Lewis said, "Most times the drivers don't see her, and some of those who understand what she is get used to her and they just pass by, you know, just like that."

"Alice!" Sam yelled, as Dean aimed the shotgun at the specter.

"We can't take a chance," Dean muttered, "I'm taking her out."

He fired a salt round at her.

The ghost disappeared with a pained cry.

The train zipped by where she was standing, a blur of oblivious people and unforgiving, screeching metal.

" " "

"So how long have you been seeing her?" Sam asked, as the three men emerged from an emergency exit, this one opening up to a small park surrounded by high-rise buildings.

"A month maybe," Lewis replied, chuckling, "I lose track of time. Hey. Track. Haha, like subway tracks, get it? Lose track of the time in the tracks. Get it?"

The Winchesters glanced at each other warily.

"Sure," Dean said with a smiling wince, feeling quite glad to be out of the tunnels. They had walked in the direction the ghost had come from. She came out of a side pathway that led to a long, winding tunnel which opened up to a wider room that split up into six more dark, winding, endless tunnels. There was no telling from which one she had come, or what lay there. The place was a cold, dark, stinking, endless maze.

It didn't take them long to sense the futility of the search. They had to pick a tunnel out of the six, then they had to decide how far to walk down it, and the damned hallways were _endless_, just long and split up further. There was no way they could go in with so few clues to follow.

Dean couldn't wait to get out, and breathed easier only after they emerged to open air. He was edgy, and shaken, and he had that unshakable feeling that if they had stayed any longer, he'd have lost his mind, just _lost _it.

They couldn't have exited at a better place than near a park.

Sam handed Lewis his spoils – cigarettes, snacks and cash, as promised.

"Well-earned," Sam told him as he greedily took the goods, "We'll likely be in touch. It's gonna take more than one visit to get a good picture of the place."

_Shit_, Dean thought, even as he already knew that. He shuddered again at the thought of returning to the tunnels, and again, caught Sam's crazy-eye. He looked at Dean worriedly, and Dean pointedly ignored him.

"Well don't think this is a one-time payment thing," Lewis said, already lighting up a cigarette, "You gotta pay every time."

"Guessed as much," Dean said, "So what, we can find you at the same place?"

"Unless you want my calling card," Lewis sneered at him as he shuffled away from the brothers, "Wise-ass."

Dean blinked after him, unstung. "What a character, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed, as he and Dean walked toward one of the park benches and sat down side by side, "Well we're sure there's a ghost down there now. And we got the name of a missing girl who matches the description. Wanna talk to Alice Frye's family?"

"Sam, it's the middle of the night and we stink," Dean said with a grimace, "I don't wanna stink up the dead girl's mom's house, if you know what I mean. Let's hit the motel first, see what we dig up on the girl, take a damn shower, whatever, then meet the parents tomorrow, huh?"

"Good call," Sam agreed, sighing again, "I hope this is over soon. I hate going to the tunnels."

"You're telling me," Dean grimaced.

"So what was with you back there?" Sam asked.

"What was what?" Dean asked, but it was a knee-jerk reaction, weightless, and they both knew what they were talking about anyway, so Sam decided not to explain, and just waited for Dean to answer.

"Not so much of a stretch, is it," Dean said, quietly, "To say the tunnels kinda remind me of the Pit?"

Sam's brows furrowed worriedly. He guessed as much, sure. It wasn't hard to reconcile the suffering, darkness and entrapment they found in the tunnels with Hell itself. He could even forget the visceral reactions of actually experiencing being down there; even all across lore and literature, hell was traditionally depicted as a labyrinthine underworld.

"You shouldn't go back," Sam said, mildly, already knowing he was going to get his head bitten off.

"And what, you do this on your own?" Dean snorted, "Not gonna happen. Like you said, this is one of our most dangerous terrain so far. I can hack it, Sam."

Sam just shook his head, "I'm gonna call up Bobby, see if he found someone--"

"I can hack it!" Dean snapped, anger bubbling at the thought that Sam might be thinking that he couldn't do his job.

"_I_ can't," Sam said, undeterred, "It's just one more reason on a growing list of why we shouldn't be the ones doing this, Dean, all right? You agreed we'd give this other option a shot already, this is a done discussion."

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother, huffed in frustration and rose from the bench, walking fast and away from him. Sam followed at a leisurely pace, but Dean never felt Sam's eyes move away from his back for a second.

Didn't that used to be his role? Too many things have changed since he got back from the Pit, that's for sure. _Too many things..._

He yelped when he felt his brother's Sasquatch-paw yank on the collar of his jacket. Sam pulled him back, and re-oriented the aimless direction he was angrily walking on, even as Sam continued to distractedly talk with Bobby on the phone.

Dean walked faster, face reddening in anger and embarrassment. So what, Sam got even bulkier and bigger than Dean while he was away, and he on the other hand, got leaner, more slight, more damaged. Sam got stronger and sterner, and he on the other hand... well. He was mind-fucked, no two ways about that. Sam was a better drinker now too. And the way he played pool the other day... well, Dean would hate to find out if Sam got better than him at that too.

Dean scowled. This was decidedly _not cool_. But he could hardly blame Sam, right? He _died_, and Sam had to do what he had to do to survive.

_But I'm back now_, he thought. Sam didn't have to be so... so damn strong all the time. So damn firm. Dean missed his kid brother, missed being able to do things for him, things that Sam found admirable.

" " "

Queens, New York

" " "

Dean took a shower first, and then settled in bed as Sam took his turn in the bathroom. He wanted to talk about what they had seen and what it could mean, but he just felt so weary. He rested his eyes for a moment, leaning against the headboard of his bed while waiting for Sam to come out of the shower.

Next thing he knew, he was shooting up awake at the tail-end of another crippling nightmare.

Dean didn't shoot up awake with a knife in his hand so much anymore, not since he got back from hell. The main difference probably was that he used to wake in defense of a perceived external intrusion, after all, fear of danger, of injury. Now... he would just wake up from a nightmare, something dark inside him. If he grabbed his knife, he thought macabrely, god only knew where that thing would end up digging into his damned skin, which was where the damned threat was--

"You okay?" sleepy, sullen voice from the next bed. Apparently, Sam had gone to bed too, after finding Dean passed out. _Great_. Between Dean's nightmares waking Sam and Sam's nightmares waking Dean, it was a surprise any of them got any sleep at all.

"Same old," Dean grunted, settling back down on his bed.

_Weird colors... the heat... and I could hear screaming_...

He shuddered, involuntarily, pulling the covers up over his body.

"Dean, maybe we should..." Sam began, worriedly.

"We're not stopping cold, Sammy," Dean ground out, half-heartedly.

"Hm," Rustle of sheets at the noncommittal shrug.

"Hey Sam," Dean said after a moment, "You wanna hear something really stupid?"

"I've been listening to you haven't I?"

Dean's brows rose, "Burn! Bitch, who taught you to talk like that?"

He smiled as he heard Sam's bed-and-sleep-muffled, rumbling laugh.

"There's some stuff I wish I cold forget," Dean said, "And it's not just hell."

"Like what?"

"Like tonight," Dean replied, "And all the other _Oprah_-nights we had like this." He raised his voice an octave, doing an unfair impression of his younger brother when they were just kids, "Oh, Dean, where's dad? Why's he always away? What does he do at night? Why do we keep moving? Is my name really Sam Winchester?"

"Why the heck would I ask that?"

"Your nosy-kid-self," Dean explained, "Not much different from your present -Sasquatch-self, I might add - got wind of dad's fake ID stash. You had these big eyes, man, I thought they were gonna pop out, and you were like, 'Is my name really Sam Winchester?'"

"What did you say?"

"The truth," Dean replied, "I told you your real name was dickhead, or jackass, something like that."

"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam sighed.

" " "

When he next woke, it felt just like the last time: the jolt of his body and choking on a scream and the remnants of a nightmare, except the sun was already dully rising, and the room was empty. He caught his breath, and kept his eyes as wide and unblinking as he possibly could, not wanting them to close, not wanting to see the residual images of his nightmare.

_Crappy Queens motel room, crappy Queens motel room_, he kept telling himself, that was where he was. Not some other hell somewhere else, where flesh burned and rotted and voices screamed futilely, and it never, ever, ever ended--

"Sam?" he called out, voice hoarse. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and ran shaking hands over his face and mussed hair. He closed his eyes, and the images flashed again, making his body jerk and stiffen in instinctive reaction.

He planted his socked feet on the floor. Sam had removed his boots, and he wondered how in the world he didn't wake up for that. His boots were placed in a neat line by the door of their room, so he figured Sam must have done it and not him. He turned on the lights and walked toward his shoes. There was a note rolled up on the right one.

'_Calm down, just grabbed breakfast_,' went the first line. Dean wished fervently that Sam's OCD extended to his chicken-scratch handwriting, but then again when did he ever get the things he wished for?

_Breakfast, _Dean thought disapprovingly, looking out the window. He's been out for hours, apparently.

'_Didn't wanna wake you_,' Sam went on, '_Back in a few.'_

Dean sighed, crumpled the piece of paper and jump-shot it to the trash can. It went in cleanly, giving him a very petty sense of accomplishment for the day. _God_, he needed everything he could get at this point.

He left his shoes alone, went around the room in his socks. He might as well get organized, get on Sam's laptop, look up whatever he could on Alice Frye. He's wasted enough time on his ass as it was.

He passed by the table where they dumped the jackets they had on in their trip to the tunnels earlier that day. The smell was subtle now, barely there, really, but it was oily, and lingered, sticking to the clothes, and the barest remembrance of it was nauseating him, taking him back again, down to the stifling darkness and the screams and the burning. He started shaking, and he cussed at his inability to control himself.

He dashed to the bathroom, eyes raking for air freshener, cologne, disinfectant, alcohol, fucking lighter fluid, _whatever_, _anything_ at all that could cover up that goddamn stench. He threw open the medicine cabinet on the mirror hanging over the sink. It was empty.

The smell was taking over the room. The screams inside his head was getting louder. He was beginning to feel hot all over, like fire was licking at him.

He went on his knees before his duffel bag, dug around with his hands for his aftershave, cologne, toothpaste, whatever the hell he could get his hands on first. His finger closed around something small and plastic. He snatched it up victoriously.

_Fucking Tic-tacs_! He realized with a growl, tossing it back in the bag spitefully, until he remembered that they weren't mints in the container at all...

Breathing hard, dizzied by his predicament and by the danger of the potential solution, his shaking hands reclaimed the container full of pills. The pills he had taken from crazy David Calling's bathroom, the pills the old man took to calm himself down.

_Maybe_, he thought, _maybe just one_. _Just one, and just this one time_.

He shoved a pill in his mouth before he could think about it more. He dry swallowed it with a wince, and closed his eyes as if it could make the medicine work faster. He counted to calm himself, opened his eyes only when his breaths started to come easier, and the elements of the world suddenly felt like they were a veiled screen away, making him feel fully-aware but vaguely detached. Even the sickening smell that made him panic in the first place felt distanced from him.

_Just one,_ he told himself, _And just this one time_.

" " "

"Dean open up!" Sam yelled, pounding on the door of their motel room, juggling the plastic bags of takeout along with, apparently, all his anxieties.

He must have woken up his brother, because he heard a growl and lethargic feet pounding to the door. Dean opened the door for him.

"Dontcha have a key?" Dean moaned.

"My hands were full," Sam said dismissively, shoving the bags of food into his brother's stunned arms, and pushing his way into the room. He snapped on the TV and put it on a news channel.

"I was waiting for the food," he said as the commercial played, "The anchor said to stay tuned, they have some news on Alice Frye, Dean. They said they found her body washed up on the Hudson, man."

Dean was busy putting the food down on Sam's bed. He sat down heavily and looked up at Sam. "What?"

"Her body," Sam replied urgently, "Washed up on the Hudson and--" he shut his mouth when the news came back from the commercial.

The field reporter was a fiery upstart, a lanky young man in a snappy suit, his delivery flawless, as he reported that the body of missing college coed Alice Frye was found earlier in the day, washed up on the river. He said that she was badly decomposed, but that there was still enough of her for the detectives to gather evidence and for identification.

"I guess there goes salting and burning her," Sam winced, "At least, until the cops get what evidence they could from the body. We can't break in there and burn their chances of getting evidence from the body and catch whoever hurt her."

The reporter went on to say that from what could be seen from her body, she suffered for some time at the hands of her captors; she was bruised in patterns that suggested she was tied, beat up, tortured, and sexually abused. The cause of death, though, was drowning.

"Maybe she'll rest in peace once the killer is caught," Dean murmured.

The reporter continued with providing information, including saying that Alice was identified by both dental records, and her boyfriend and parents recognizing the prominent tattoos of butterflies on each of her wrists.

Sam and Dean's eyes shot up to each other.

"I didn't see anything, did you?" they both said at the same time.

"No," they also said at the same time, before blinking at each other and concentrating back on the news.

The reporter concluded that the police was getting whatever they could from the body and from investigating her activities in the last days that she was alive. He also said that the family was going to cremate her and have a service as soon as she is released to them. The news program went to another commercial.

Sam pinched at the bridge of his nose, as he tried to piece together his thoughts. "So Alice Frye goes missing around the same time our Subway ghost appears, right? They're both blond, they're both injured the same way. Every physical description is the same except for the tattoos. Alice's body turns up in the river, so there's nothing directly tying her to the subway. Could we be... could we be dealing with two different people who incidentally look like the same type of girl?"

"If the ghost isn't Alice," said Dean cautiously, "And they look like the same kind of girl, and have the same kind of injuries... Sammy... I don't know, man, but ya think we coulda stumbled into the work of some kind of a serial killer here?"

To be continued...


	4. Turf

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**Underworld**

Summary:The Winchesters stumble into the work of a serial killer running loose in New York, as if Dean's post-traumatic stress syndrome, the police, and 2 Subway ghosts weren't enough to deal with. Set between 4.08 and 4.09.

**Hi gang**!

Thanks so much for reading through the rambling experiment that is _Underworld_. This is a different path for me in _Supernatural_, so I would appreciate it if you have any thoughts or other feedback. Mostly, I am just hoping its' comprehensible at the least, haha, and enjoyable at best. I'm almost done writing it, and reviews make me go faster, if you can't tell haha. Anyway, here's chapter 3. Comments and constructive crit as welcome as always. Hope you have fun, thanks for reading and for the patience!

" " "

**Underworld**

" " "

_**3: Turf**_

" " "

Queens, New York

2008

" " "

They put Bobby Singer on speaker phone, the cell almost lost in the piles of plastic and paper of over-indulgent takeout on top of the small table in their motel room.

Sam had gone a little bit overboard; maybe it's that he's been sick of having pizza almost every day since they got to New York. Maybe he just felt the compulsion to feed Dean, who was looking a little bit lighter and more drawn since he got back from the Pit. Either way, they munched on the food thoughtfully, as they discussed the situation with the older hunter.

"So we looked it up," Sam said, chewing busily, "There are two cold cases – one in 2003 and one in 2005 – of dead girls who look like Alice Frye. They're blond, skinny, twenty-something girls, with the same kind of injuries found on Alice: bruises, cuts, and distinct wrist and ankle rope burns. These two women died from a lethal combo of exposure, exhaustion, starvation and dehydration. The coroner's report seem to indicate that Alice was headed the same way, except her cause of death was drowning."

"Like she escaped from her sicko kidnapper," Dean filled in, "Straight to the water, except she didn't make it."

"So you got three confirmed dead girls," Sam continued, "And get this: since the first girl was found murdered in 2003, more skinny, blond twenty-something girls have been reported missing."

"It's just a numbers game, Sam," Bobby reasoned, "Tons of women go missing, some of them are bound to look like that."

"But if you wanna talk numbers, Bobby," Sam argued, "The yearly rate in the last five years is considerably higher than the average yearly rate in the last two _decades_ before that. It's like, someone started picking off the girls in '03 and hasn't stopped since. If it's just a numbers game, Bobby, these are major statistical outliers."

"What we're thinking," said Dean, swallowing a mouthful of food distractedly, "Sammy this is really good."

"Dean," Bobby pressed him impatiently, "What?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, taking a gulp of water, "So the three deaths are spaced apart enough to keep the cops from thinking it might've been done by the same guy, right? Dead blond in '03, dead blond two years later in '05, and now you have Alice, dead blond number three. If you think about it, three dead girls is really not too large a number in the last five years, so it's possible no one's made the connection unless they dig in deep, or stumble into it like Sam and I did. There might be more dead blond chicks, man, we're thinking our ghost-girl is one of them, except no one's found her or the other bodies yet. Either way, we think it might be the same guy nabbing and killing 'em, Bobby."

"Same guy," said Bobby, "Like same _live _guy?"

"Same guy like not-supernatural kind of guy," Dean replied, "You ah... you once told me where to draw the line at something that ain't out job, so I don't know about this one. Our job's the ghost-girl, not some psycho killer out there. But we can't mess with a chick's body if it's an open case like that, or they might never catch him. But if the serial killer's not our job, and the cops aren't paying enough attention... should we? You get what I'm trying to say?"

"Hm," said the older hunter, thoughtfully, "You sure your killer's alive? 'Cos if he's dead that will bring him right to our turf. You've gone up against dead serials before."

"It doesn't..." Sam hesitated, "It doesn't _feel_ supernatural, you know? I mean, am I just whistling at the wind here? We've been doing this long enough to get a kind of sense about these things, and the way these girls just suddenly ended up missing? The circumstances were just so ordinary, and as far as I'm concerned, it's not supernatural unless proven otherwise. The ghost-girl may be our case, but the killer isn't. Then again, we can't mess around with one without messing with the other, can we?"

"But the cops haven't done squat in the last five years," Dean pointed out.

"So what do you wanna do?" Sam asked.

"I don't know, Sam," Dean replied, "I mean, we've been thinking about how the hell to get around this damn case, right? Maybe the answer isn't salting and burning her, or coaxing her to the frigging light. Maybe if we find her killer, we can bring her peace or something."

"I don't know, bro," said Sam, "I still don't think we should be messing around with active cases. We're good at investigating, solving stuff, sure. But this is what these cops _do_, all right? The same way we can't expect them to be good at our job. Or I'd sooner grab a scalpel and start doing neurosurgery."

"Bobby?" Dean asked.

"It'll confuse a lot of things if we start meddling Dean, that's for sure," Bobby said, "Ideally we don't mess around with live cases. There's a process involved. I mean, what do you wanna do, catch up to this killer and kill him too? 'Cos if you catch him alive and call him in and it's not done properly, that man just might walk. But you're right, the cops aren't paying enough attention."

"So what do we do?" Sam asked.

"I would drop the cops a good tip," Bobby said, "Let them start to look at this possible serial killer. Then I'd focus on the subway ghost instead, at least that one's our job for sure. Find out who she is, what she's doing here. Drop the cops another line before burning her, if you find the body. If you don't find it, sending her off to the light isn't gonna hurt anyone."

" " "

Sam and Dean spent the rest of the day assembling whatever they had on the possible serial killer case, and trying to figure out how to dump it on the cops and precisely to whom. And then the brothers went back to the bar they visited the previous night.

Sam was monopolizing the liquor, and Dean was hoping it would take Sam's edge off enough for him not to notice that Dean wasn't drinking. He had it hours ago, but he was cautious that Calling's scrip drugs were still keeping him in a buzz, and he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to start drinking too. It took Sam three beers to notice that Dean was still nursing his first, and taking dainty sips at that.

"Anything wrong with your drink?" Sam asked.

Dean glanced at the bottle, before looking back up at Sam. "I'm just not that up to it tonight, I guess. It's weird, huh? This fricking case. I hate it when we have to deal with the crazy-assed living on top of the dead."

"There was that freaky hunting family," Sam reminisced, and Dean perforce did too. He hated that damn job. Got him taking a big gulp off his beer, before he realized it and stopped.

"There was that cop who tried to kill you," Sam added, "There was that writer summoning ghosts in Hollywood... but you're right, an honest-to-god live serial killer just walking around the city... walking around for the last_ five years_, man. I'm much more disturbed than I thought I would be."

"Well like Bobby said," Dean sighed, "We just gotta focus on the girl, I guess. Makes things slightly simpler- not to say that this job isn't fucked up enough. But at least we're _slightly_ less fucked now."

"I guess," Sam agreed, "So back to zero. Subway ghost, no name, no body, nothing. Tomorrow, we drop a line on the cops, and then, since this ghost appears only on the weekends and tomorrow's Sunday already, I guess we gotta go back to the tunnels, huh?"

Dean's hand flew to the bottle before he could stop himself. And to hell with it all, and Crazy David Calling's pill. The effects should have run out by now already anyway, right? _Right_. He downed the bottle, raised his hand for another one.

"Yup," Dean said, "I guess we gotta."

" " "

Dean let Sam drive on the way back to the motel; something that tickled Sam's senses a little bit, considering Dean liked driving as much as possible and Sam had far more to drink. But Sam had looked at his brother's bloodshot eyes and half-asleep expression and took the keys to the Impala eagerly.

It was an extremely short trip, yet it still found Dean asleep on the passenger seat, completely and unquestionably passed out. Sam eased the car to park, and looked at his sleeping brother thoughtfully.

Dean's face was slack, just emptied. Dean looked like someone else, unoccupied like that. Like a wax-version of himself, a little bit less of a person. Even in sleep he was never so uncharacterized as he had been since returning from Hell. Since returning, he's either been restless and nakedly afraid, or just flat dead to the world. Neither version was the big brother Sam had watched sleep over the years.

He sighed, and Dean didn't even stir. He was tempted to let Dean be for a little while; Sam had been doing that lately, just taking advantage of any decent sleep Dean could get, at any hour of the day, work be damned. He knew for a fact Dean wasn't getting any decent shut-eye at night.

But they had work to do tomorrow, and Dean would be better off on a real bed. Sam only hoped that the liquor coursing through Dean that had him lights-outed like this could allow him to fall back as peacefully asleep once he gets to bed.

He reached over and shook his brother's shoulder. "Hey, dude. We're here."

Dean didn't start, didn't jerk awake, like he once would have. He shifted, sighed, and kind of just opened his eyes and blearily blinked at Sam. "Where?"

"Where else, dude," Sam said, shaking him again when his eyes started to drift close again, "The motel, man. Come on, let's get you to bed."

"Good plan," Dean sighed, heavy hands pawing at the door of the car, trying twice before he could get it open. Sam imagined how long he would take unlocking the motel room, and decided to sprint ahead and open the door for them. Dean trudged inside and plopped on his bed, out cold again.

Sam frowned, watched Dean sleep for countless moments, before turning away to organize their research material.

" " "

New York, New York

" " "

Best-selling authors Dean Tyler and Samuel Perry literally just stepped inside the Manhattan precinct housing the office of Detective Lawrence Dancy and asked to see him.

Dancy, whom they discovered was in charge of the Alice Frye case from gruff interviews he had made in the news, was a ten-year veteran on the job. He looked like an impatient football coach; bulky, hardy, sandy-haired, with sharp, dark eyes. He said he could give them two minutes, and anything over that and he would physically toss them out on the street himself. He had a job to do, he said, and had enough of all the press.

"Fair enough," Dean told him, believing Dancy's capacity for casual violence and also quite undaunted by it. The dude reminded him of their dad, a little.

"We just thought you should take a look at this," Sam said, handing him a full set of whatever the brothers had on the case: the two dead mid-twenties, thin blonds preceding Alice Frye, and the girls missing since 2003, when the first murder happened and when the number suddenly spiked outside of the historical rates.

"What the hell is this?" Dancy asked, looking through the papers.

"You might be working on it already," Dean said, "But just look through it, will you? Alice Frye looks just like two other dead girls murdered a few years ago, several years apart. And her injuries – the pattern of the rope burns on her wrists and ankles, are also similar to the two other murders. It might be worth thinking the crimes were committed by the same guy."

"The two deaths," Dancy murmured, reading through the material, "One in '03 and one in '05, both unsolved, both cold. You're right, the rope burns look the same as the ones on Alice. I have to check with forensics and the old records to be sure, though. And the three girls do look alike."

"There may be more," Sam went on, nodding toward the papers on the missing girls, "Every year from the last five years, there's been more missing girls looking like that than the city's statistical yearly average for the last two decades, detective. There might be more girls out there, they just haven't been found yet."

Dancy studied the papers more, and then looked at the two men before him quizzically. "Two cold cases and decades of statistics. Who the hell are you boys?"

"I think we've been here over two minutes," Dean said with a smirk, "Maybe we should go."

"Maybe I should arrest you in connection with the case," Dancy said, no sense of humor at all, "Who the hell are you?"

"We told you already," Sam sighed, "We're writers, this is just what we do. Now, we spotted something and wanted to be helpful, so there you go. You have that with you, so our civic duty is done and done. Do you need anything else?"

Dancy frowned, and looked at the two men with narrow eyes. "Leave your contact details, gentlemen. I may need to get in touch with you again."

" " "

The Subway System

New York, New York

" " "

They couldn't find Lewis, but they were running out of weekend and therefore proceeded back into the tunnels on their own, following the way they came in with the old man days ago.

Dean was hoping the second time going down would be easier, but if anything, it was worse. The first time he had gone, he experienced fear. The second time, he felt that, and then amplified by his fear of his fear. It was like being burnt once and coming back twice shy. It was all just conditioning, wasn't it? Learning to be afraid of something. Except, theoretically, learning involved deterrent, or learning to stay away from the things you were afraid of... as opposed to leading the damn way back. It was goddamn hard getting back on the horse, that was sure.

He stopped by the mouth of the alley they had first used as an entrance going down to the tunnels, and felt Sam pause just behind him. The alley looked even worse in the daytime, all its flaws lit up and exposed, making the deplorable conditions look flat, _real_, inescapable. At least the night had hidden some of it in shadow, and the flames the homeless had ignited for warmth and light had given the depressing sight some glow.

One unchanged thing: the goddamn smell was still there, and Dean's twice-damned, consequently summoned fears and anxieties were therefore far from absent also.

The flashes of hellish memory and the shakes began again.

"Dean?" his younger brother called to him, quietly.

"Looks like a dump in the light," he replied, mouth dry, a beat later than he should have. Sam had shifted from his position behind Dean, stared at his face for a long moment.

Dean gazed up at him, eyes begging him not to ask, not to ask anything, he wasn't ready, he wasn't ready, and if he was asked now, god only knew what would come out of his mouth. Because he was done lying, but he can't, just _can't_ talk about this right now, not while he felt like he was caught with his damned pants down or something.

Sam looked troubled for a long moment, knowing what he meant, almost always knowing what he needed. And then Dean blinked, and realized in that short span of time that Sam suddenly looked like someone else _entirely_. The transformation was sudden, dizzying, and unmistakable. Sam's jaws set, he squared his shoulders, making him look impossibly larger, and his eyes looked firm, steady, downright _steely_.

_Protective,_ Dean realized.

It was terrifying, and it was also undoubtedly assuring.

Sam moved past Dean and led the way forward.

Dean watched his back for a long, thoughtful moment. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and discreetly palmed two of David Calling's pills. He shoved them in his mouth, and followed behind Sam.

" " "

Sam was almost hoping Dean wouldn't follow, given that his older brother was obviously more than a little bit bent about all this, but then that had been a pipe dream. Anywhere Sam went into danger, Dean would always, always find the strength to go. Trauma from hell aside, injuries aside, even when they were blind-mad at each other, Dean always somehow found it in himself to go wherever Sam went, even when Sam didn't want to be followed, even when Sam didn't want to be found.

Sam had an ear toward Dean, watched him from the corner of his eye. Dean sped up a little, and walked beside him. His older brother's head was bent low, and he wouldn't look at Sam. The posture was familiar; Dean radiated shame and embarrassment like he did once in awhile, and Sam longed to tell him he found nothing more courageous than his brother facing his fears. _Nothing_. But Dean wasn't ready, and this was probably not the best time.

The people in the alleyway watched them, but apparently didn't care who they were or what they were doing, just let them be. As long as you knew where everything was, everyone else minded their own businesses, it seemed.

"So she comes out in the weekends," Sam said, as he and Dean lifted up the metal grates on the ground, "We know she heads toward the tracks, and stands in front of the train. She comes out from a side door, which leads to a hallway ending in a room that splits up six ways. The last time we were here, we didn't know which one of the six to follow."

"Yeah so what will make this round any different?" Dean asked.

"I'm thinking we head to the room where the tunnel splits up," Sam said, "Wait for her to appear, see which one she comes out from. That should narrow down the search a little bit more. After we know which of the six halls she came out of, we go down that path, and then see where to go from there."

Dean took a deep breath. "I wish she was one of those ghosts, you know, the ones who drop you clues where their fricking bodies are. This one's... it's like we have to work backwards, you know. We know where she's going, we gotta find out where she came from, and she ain't dropping any hints."

"You were looking at her, right?" Sam said, "She wasn't paying attention to anything but the train, and the way she came from. She didn't care about us or anything else."

Dean tested the ladder rope again, but Sam noted that he pointedly didn't ask Sam to go first. The first time they went down, Dean let his younger brother go first, thinking he was more protected sandwiched between their guide and his older brother. Now, sans a guide, Dean didn't want him down there until he was sure it was safe by going ahead.

Sam had thought of giving in to Dean's protective streak, but decided that now was not the time. Dean was shaky as hell, and if there was anything down there to surprise them, Sam was in a much better position to defend himself. He wanted to let Dean save face, but this was a tactical decision now, this could be life and death.

Sam reached for the rope. Dean looked at him with a brow raised.

"Thanks for testing," Sam said, pretending to be obtuse, "I'm sure it'll hold me."

Dean stared at him. Sam stared back, imploring. _Let me do this_, _let me do this_... _Don't make me force you to stand down. Let me do this_.

Dean nodded jerkily at him, but let him go ahead.

" " "

Going down the tunnels with Calling's drugs running through his veins softened the blows, somewhat. He breathed slightly easier, and while still feeling aggravated, he was no longer crippled by his fears and his memories. The damn things were breathing against the back of his neck, but no longer engulfing all of his senses and bringing him to his knees.

He walked behind Sam, again, parallel to the tracks. They pressed against the stinking walls when a train passed them by. Dean belatedly realized that he felt Sam's Sasquatch hand on his chest, pushing him back protectively. He looked down on it as if it was an alien growth against his body, but Sam had withdrawn it casually after the threat against Dean was gone, like it was nothing, and then just kept on walking ahead.

The tunnel was dark, looked almost the same in the day as it did at night. Everything was just mostly brown-black, except in the spaces lit by bulbs every few feet, or the areas where there were grates on the ceiling, letting the light in from the world above.

Because he was calmer and more observant this time around, Dean noticed the graffiti for the first time; the street artists were clever, made use of the sporadic light bulbs like lighting effects in an art gallery. The most elaborate artworks were the ones beneath the glow of the lights. The nature of the work ranged from demonic symbology he recognized from his work and that reckless kids threw out casually nowadays, to 'tags,' or names of the artists in a stylized signature, to graphic street art depicting a sense of violence, just pieces that make someone who looks at them feel weirdly unsettled.

"Look," Sam murmured, stopping by a post, and pointing at the words _'Look'_ written over a pair of staring eyes.

"Who does this crap," Dean muttered, "It's fricking cold and fricking dark and you can just get nipped by the fricking train, and no one even sees it."

"I read somewhere that it 'humanizes the urban landscape_'_ or something," Sam said quietly, "You know how the modern graffiti stuff really took off? There was this messenger guy who went around a lot 'cos of his work, in the 70's or something. He went around so much he started 'tagging' the places he's been to, writing his name on a seat, a post, a ledge... An '_I was here_' kind of thing, I guess. I don't blame him. A job like that, a place like this... makes you kinda think nothing's gonna change after you die, like everything can just go on."

"Maybe he just wanted to piss people off," Dean muttered, as the brothers stopped by the opening that the ghost girl came from.

"This is it," Sam breathed, "You think we'll see her today?"

"Well it is the weekend," Dean said, "But I dunno. She doesn't have a set time aside from that. We'll have to wait it out, I guess."

" " "

The Winchesters went into the opening, and walked along the long, narrow tunnel. The sounds of the trains grew softer behind them the further they went, turning into dulled rumbles that came from no particular direction, just reverberating against the damp walls. The rumble was the only sound that broke the drip-drip-dripping water, and the light splashes their feet made on the wet ground.

There were artworks on these walls too, but nothing elaborate now, just scrawls and street fonts the brothers didn't recognize. Some were just made out of sheer rage, it seemed, just X's and random waves that scarred the concrete.

They eventually broke into a wide, circular room, surrounded by six openings all leading up to longer corridors. This was where they hit a dead-end the last time they were here; they didn't know from which of the openings the ghost came from.

Sam exhaled heavily, as he took a walk around the space. There was no indication at all of where the girl could have come from, but he had to check.

"I guess now we wait," Sam said, looking at his brother's pale face.

" " "

Neither brother felt like sitting down on _any_ surface area of the space. This was saying a lot, considering all of the places they've been to and all of the things they've done, all of the monster-fluids, swamps and other liquids of questionable sources they've ever had contact with. So they just stood, and paced, and stretched. For _hours_.

"Kinda feels like we're being punished by dad, huh?" Sam asked, wryly, shifting from leg to leg.

"I didn't get punished a lot," Dean pointed out.

Sam just rolled back his eyes.

"Man, I'm bored," Dean commented, after a few quiet minutes.

"You want to hear something creepy?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at him skeptically, but was antsy enough to want to pay attention to something other than waiting and doing nothing. "What?"

"The Whitechapel murders," Sam said, "I just remembered."

"Jack the Ripper," Dean filled in, "What about him?"

"There's a theory of how he got to kill all those women," Sam said, "With no one spotting him. If you look at how the killings were located, you could practically map it out within close proximity to exit/entry points for the London sewers. Some people think he used the underground system."

Dean blanched, "Cities, man. Crazy stuff, even back then."

They fell silent for a little while.

"I told you I hate this place," Dean said, beginning to move around the room in earnest. Sam had to crane his neck and keep turning 360 degrees just to keep an eye on him.

"You all right?" Sam asked.

"I just hate waiting," Dean said, catching himself, and forcing himself to stay still, "I _hate_ waiting, and I hate this place."

Sam looked at him thoughtfully. "You know Dean," he began, carefully, "When I was having nightmares about... about Jessica, and you said I was supposed to take care of myself 'cos I had to have your back--"

"Oh god," Dean groaned, beginning to pace again, "I _hate _talking more--"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam snapped, "I know you're having a little trouble here, all right? Maybe we have to talk about it."

"No," Dean snapped back, "I told you--"

"Dean," Sam sighed, "I know you don't wanna talk about this. I know you don't think I can make it better, you don't think I can understand. But maybe... maybe you gotta give me a shot. Maybe I could, or I know someone who could, if I just knew a little bit more."

"_You_ can fix me," Dean scoffed, "Or you know _someone_ who could? Yeah, 'cos there must be, like, a support group out there, of the hundreds of people who know what it's like to be in the Pit, who serve cold coffee and old cookies in meetings in community centers, right? _Know somebody_? For god's sake, don't waste my time."

The comment hurt, and Sam was no longer in the mood to pull punches either, "You're slipping, Dean. You're shaken, and jittery, and if you're not careful, you or me, one of us is gonna get hurt on this job."

His older brother winced. If anything could hurt him, it was the idea of weakness, incompetence, and the worst of the bunch, the inability to protect his brother. Sam knew the right buttons to push, all right.

"Now's not the damn time--" Dean hissed at him.

"Yeah, 'cos we're so busy," Sam said sarcastically, "You gotta start talking, Dean. This thing is eating you alive."

"I'm dealing with it, all right?" Dean exclaimed, "I'm back here, right? I'm back, I'm working, I'm focused – or trying at any rate, if you just waive the drama 'til the job is done – if you're just worried I'm gonna get your ass kicked or leave your back wide open, then problem solved! When have I ever let you do--"

"You know it's not just about that," Sam said vehemently, "I don't want you bottling this up and killing yourself dealing with it on your own, okay? After dad died, and after what he said about me, and after everything, we should be past this, right? We should both already know that keeping shit to ourselves doesn't really go anywhere good."

"'Cos you're the king of self-revelation, right?" Dean said sarcastically, "All honesty and purity and openness and truth--"

"Dean--"

"You two should keep it down."

The Winchester brothers whipped around at the echoing voice of a woman who seemingly just appeared out of nowhere, looking at them thoughtfully, and oddly calmly, even when they raised their shotguns in her direction.

She was a slight brunette, with gentle features that could have looked child-like and very pretty in another life, in a _kinder_ life. Instead, her face was drawn, her expression weary. Her clothes were old and masculine, hanging off her bony frame. She was decidedly not the ghost they were waiting for. She was an unfortunate soul of the more conventional, _natural_-sort.

"You shouldn't be sneaking up on people like that, lady," Dean told her, warily lowering his weapon.

"I wasn't sneaking," she said curtly, "You two were yelling up a storm, I could hear you from miles down that way." She jerked a thumb behind her, down the dark length of one of the six corridors that lined the room. "You couldn't have noticed anyone coming at you. I was tempted to start throwing bottles at yer heads."

Dean looked at Sam pointedly, blaming him for the heated discussion.

"You'd have woken up the baby," she added.

"Baby?" Dean asked, raising his brows in surprise.

"I just had her," the woman said, "Coupla weeks back. Right here, all natural-like. So yeah, baby."

"This is no place for a kid," Dean told her, flatly, "It's dark, and cold, and dangerous, and god knows what kind of--"

"This ain't the first time I've been judged by an asshole," she cut him off darkly, and dangerously, "You a cop? Or one of them CPS jerks? Or maybe you're just a busy-body? 'Cos you take this to them cops and they take away my kid, I'm gonna cut you, I swear to god. I know your face, and I will cut you."

Dean looked at her skeptically, and then really _looked_. She was tiny and grimy, and frail-built, but her eyes were wild, like a lioness guarding her cub.

"But maybe it will be better for you and your daughter up there," Sam said, earnestly, "Don't they have shelters and women's groups and places like that?"

"Shelters," she scoffed, "The moment I hit a shelter? CPS'll take Chrissy away. I was told that's what they'd do. They'd tell you to put the kid in the foster home for a little while, while you get back on your feet. But you ain't never gonna get yer kid back, I tell you. Down here's the only chance we got to stay together. Now I'm no addict, I'm no criminal, I know how to look after a kid. I'm just down on my luck, 's all.

"Listen," she finished, "I don't want trouble. I just want you bastards to keep it the fuck down. So's my kid can sleep, all right?"

"It's none of our business," Sam conceded, feeling like it was getting wrenched out of him.

Dean wasn't as pliable. His stunned gaze shot to Sam's, almost accusingly. Sam looked at him in warning. _Later_, Sam conveyed, _Let me handle this_.

"Listen, miss--" Sam began.

"Brenda," she corrected him.

"Brenda," Sam amended quickly, "We wanna get out of your hair, believe me, we do. But maybe you can help us out. This is gonna sound crazy, but I'm looking for a skinny blond girl--"

"Oh, you mean the ghost?" she asked, plainly, like it was just one more identifying characteristic.

Sam and Dean glanced at each other.

"Yeah the ghost," Dean said, his tone quietly awed. Brenda had spoken of ghosts down here as casually as their last guide, Lewis had.

"I got no problems sayin she's a ghost," Brenda shrugged, "She is. I've seen her once or twice."

"O-kay," Sam breathed, blinking, thinking, _that makes things slightly easier_. Lewis had been right when he said that down here, you just _were_. Things and people were quite simply whatever they _were_, ghosts included.

"She pops out from over there," Brenda pointed at the furthest left opening. "I know 'cos I've been living back this way for years," she pointed at the way she had come, "I know 'cos that's the one road I don't go down on."

"Why not?" Sam asked.

"It don't feel right," she said, "Colder, and darker, even when everything looks the same. No one I know goes down that way. And once in awhile, it just smells wrong."

"Sounds about right," Dean muttered.

"Who the hell are you?" Brenda asked, wrinkling her nose at them.

"No one you should worry about," Sam assured her, drawing out his wallet and pulling out two twenty-dollar bills. He made a step toward her, and she stiffened warily. He stayed an arm's length away and offered her the money.

"I ain't puttin' out for a forty," she told him, but it was meant as a wary joke.

"You're not my type," Sam joined in, but his humor was dry, and he was ready and eager to go on to the next step of the job, "For the information."

She gripped the bills hungrily, but he held on tight for a second.

"You're clean, right?" Sam asked, "This money isn't going to some dealer somewhere?"

"Goes to my kid," she said, as if it was so obvious.

Sam nodded and loosened his grip on the money at once, and then turned his back on her and walked toward the opening where the blond girl was alleged to have come from.

"Dean?" he called after his brother.

Dean was staring at the woman intently, unwilling to let her go, or the idea that she was keeping a child down here. But Sam was going down further and further along the creepy tunnel, and damned if he wasn't going to be backing him up.

"Yeah," Dean replied, walking after his brother.

" " "

"What the hell was that?" Dean snapped at Sam, "That woman is crazy to think she can keep a kid down here. It's crazy, it's irresponsible, and we have an obligation to make sure that kid gets out of here. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Don't get me wrong, Dean," Sam sighed, "I've got no illusions about any kids being down here."

"So what the hell was that?" Dean asked, stopping and grabbing Sam's arm so he would stop walking too. He turned his head in the direction that they came, as if fully intending to run back out there. There was never any stopping Dean Winchester when it came to kids...

"She looked clean to me," Sam said, peering at Dean, willing to be looked at, "And that story about CPS? Going under meant they can stay as a family? Heck, even that thing you told her – about how this is no place for a kid, that it's dark, and cold, and dangerous – the _exact_ same thing? You could have been saying that to dad, about _us _when we were kids."

"That's different, Sam," Dean growled, anger flashing in his eyes.

"How?" Sam snapped, "How is it different? They could have been us, and we could have been one of the nobodies who reported dad and thought they were doing the two of us a favor."

Flashes of that one time they had come too close to being torn apart went through Dean's head. He still remembered how his fingers felt when they closed around Sam's, and then suddenly his fingertips pressed to his palms emptily, when they were forced apart.

"It's not the same," Dean still insisted, "Dad was helping people."

"Which didn't make us any less of kids and the situation any less dangerous for us," Sam argued.

"It's not the same," Dean said more quietly, unable to explain how. Sam just shook his head to dismiss the issue.

"She looked clean to me, all right?" Sam said again, more patiently, just to appease Dean, "And this isn't our job besides, remember? We just have to get our end done. If you still feel off about it later, we'll take care of it, okay?"

Dean stared at him crossly, and then just huffed and rolled back his eyes.

Sam sighed, settled his shoulders, the physical manifestations of him realigning his thoughts. "Okay. So ghost-girl comes by this way. Then what?"

Dean looked blearily down the length of the long, _long_, _long_ hallway. It was so long the dark just swallowed up the rest of the way. They wanted to keep the advantage of natural night vision, relying on the sporadic light sources in the tunnels, but this hallway was impossible to traverse without a flashlight. Sam drew out his, and drew out schematics of the subway from one of his pockets.

"Pulled this out from online," he said as he raked through the sheets of paper, "There's several versions, there's a new one everytime they make extensions and additions on the subway. Everyone ends up a little bit confused in the end, but I think the hallway we're on right now runs near beneath 42nd street, maybe, maybe a hundred or so feet under it."

Dean gulped at the idea of being under a hundred feet of cold concrete. His hands started trembling again, and jerked toward his pockets, as if seeking assurance. The pills rattled against their plastic container, and the sound was loud in the dark quiet.

"Damn tic-tacs," Dean muttered in excuse.

"She's bound to be around here somewhere," Sam murmured distractedly.

The EMF meter in Dean's jeans pocket started to whine. Sam shoved his papers back into his pockets, and stood on alert.

The ghost appeared from seemingly out of nowhere, just burst into the hallway from a wall a few feet deeper into the tunnel, somewhere to their left.

The ghost started running toward them. She look both scared and elated, as if she had just broken free but knew that she was not in the clear just yet. The brothers got out of her way by evasive instinct, but she surely would have just gone through them and been oblivious about it if they had stood their ground.

"Mark where she came from," Dean ordered Sam, as he made to run after her.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed in disapproval as his older brother started following after the ghost, but Dean heard him growl and do what he was told anyway. They couldn't not mark the spot where she came from and just come back for that after all, since they might not properly remember it, given the endless length of the tunnel they were on. Sam headed for the wall. Dean ran after the ghost.

She looked behind her, and though Dean was pretty sure she wasn't seeing _him_, she saw somebody all right, and her eyes widened fearfully. She picked up her pace.

She was a good runner, Dean conceded, breath hitching. But he was still better, and a few paces into the chase, he caught up to her but she didn't give a damn about him at all, still looking fearfully behind her. Dean followed her gaze, but saw no one there.

She cried out desperately, as she burst into the tunnels where the tracks were running. She stopped dead, and Dean stopped and stood beside her.

A train was coming.

The train's headlights had an affinity for the gleaming silver rails of the otherwise dark, grimed tracks. The lights hit the winding silver rail and followed it, crawling closer and closer toward them, heralding the coming of the train itself.

She looked behind her, and then at the approaching headlights. And then behind her again, and then at the approaching headlights. And back again, and back again, as if she was trying to make a decision.

_Die or go back_, Dean realized, and it was like a kick in the head. She was trying to decide if it was better to die than to go back.

Dean's brows furrowed, as he watched her intent face. Tears were streaming from her eyes, and she tossed one more look behind her. Whoever was chasing her had caught up, and then, as if she came to a decision, she stepped on the tracks, on the way of the oncoming train.

"Come on, come on, come on," she muttered, as she closed her eyes, bracing for the impact.

A pair of hands grabbed Dean from behind, and pulled him out of the angry path of the oncoming train. The train rammed into the specter, just before she vanished.

Dean knew instinctively that it was Sam who had just pulled him to safety, and he clung on, as he felt the air being sucked into the train as it whizzed past them. The jerked movement of Sam's grip shifted Dean's line of vision, and he found himself staring at one of the pillars they had passed by, the one with the word _Look_, and the eyes beneath it.

Eyes that fucking _blinked_ at him.

He peered at it, willing his vision to focus. The eyes were hypnotic. Something in him understood what it meant, from the instincts of a hunter who's done jobs too long. He forcibly tore his gaze from the painted eyes, and then looked at the opposite direction, what the eyes would have been staring at.

A man was watching the entire chase unfold from the other side of the tracks, and now he turned his lonely eyes toward Dean's.

Dean pointed the man out to his brother. "Sam, '_look_.'"

Sam turned in the direction Dean pointed, quick enough to see the ghost of their witness fade away.

He caught his breath in surprise. "We have a witness."

" " "

The brothers decided to check the wall where the girl came from first, before pursuing the ghost of the witness. It was a long walk.

"She was trying to get away," Dean said quietly, "Then whoever put her here came after her. When she realized she couldn't run, she was trying to find the guts to kill herself. Whatever that damn monster did, death was beginning to have an appeal. Whoever this son-of-a-bitch is, I want him taken _out_. I want his damn head. Dead or alive, he's a monster and he's on our turf now, you understand me?"

Sam made no commitments to that. "So is she replaying her suicide? Because we didn't have any data on a suicide like that."

"Maybe her ghost is trying to finish what she couldn't when she was alive," Dean said with a shrug, "How fucked up is that, Sam. Her unfinished business is that she wishes she succeeded in killing herself. Man... who the hell is the fucking bastard who did this?"

"So that guy who was watching," asked Sam, "You think he saw everything?"

"Yeah," Dean winced, "I also think I know who that guy is."

"How could you possibly know that?" Sam asked, surprised.

"Remember that graffiti artist Lewis was talking about?" Dean asked, "The one who got his head bashed in, beaten to death? The guy who owned the hole where the paintings he made were moving?"

"Yeah...?"

"I knew to look in the direction where the ghost was standing because the painting on the pillar told me to '_look_,'" Dean said, "He's trying to communicate the only way he knows how: through the art he left behind, Sam. I think he saw everything, and then our New York Jack the Ripper killed him too."

"So what do you want to do?" Sam asked.

"We look at where blondie came from first," Dean said, "You marked it, right?"

"Yeah," Sam said, "And I got a quick look too, Dean. It's solid wall, man. No secret doors or anything. Maybe there's something behind it and someone blocked it over, I don't know. But I'm not about to knock down a wall in the subway just to take a look. God knows what kind of support structure we'd be tearing down."

"Yeah well let's take a closer look anyway," Dean said, "And then if we don't get anything from there, we'll have to call it a night, and just research what we _can_ tear down. She won't be doing any haunting until the weekend anyway, and it's already Sunday so we'll be clear for a few days. In the meantime..."

"We look for Lewis tomorrow and ask where that dead street artist's hole was," Sam deduced, "And spend a night there, watch the moving paintings, maybe he'll give us a clue."

"Got it in one," Dean said, sighing, "Well at least we're getting somewhere, huh?"

" " "  
Queens, New York

2008

" " "

_Thirty years was a long time._

_It took Dean about thirty years to become who he was. Good son, flashy hunter, awesome big brother. He also knew he was a decent guy. Some women would disagree, but he always thought kids, dogs and old people liked him fairly enough, and men got along with him easy. He's saved a lot of lives, and he always understood the point of what he was doing, even in dark days when he asked why, he always somehow found an answer and the heart to keep moving._

_Yes, thirty years was a long time. It takes thirty years to make a man._

_It seemed only fair that the same amount of time would be used to break him. _

_They sliced, and they carved, and they tortured him. Relentlessly, without a breath's reprieve. There was no sliding into sleep, or unconsciousness. The only relief was a momentary flash when he died or, or just ran out, promptly before he became whole again. For them to begin all over again._

_There was no unimaginable torture. He had endured the 'classics,' as he had initially macabrely thought of them: pulling out his nails (surprisingly one of the worst ones of the bunch), burning his skin and branding him, taking off a pound of flesh, skinning him, lashing him, beating him. He had endured the more severe ones, when they would slice him open and remove this and that – it was hard to tell, what with the shock of inescapable pain and the damn mess – they have burnt out his eyes, they have drowned him, and choked him, and left him completely at the mercy of cold and thirst and starvation. They've set him on fire, they've buried him alive, they've drowned him and fed him to starving, ravenous animals, they've violated him, they've tortured him wearing the faces of the people he loved, they've broken every bone he had, they've done their demon-thing and crushed him from the inside without even laying a finger on him. _

_Thirty years was a long, long time. _

_Dean's, in particular, had given him a good, strong stock to draw strength and memory and goodness from. Enough to say Screw you. For thirty years. The thirty years he had lived as a decent guy was like his savings account. This was where he picked up the guts to say "Stick it," to his tormentors and his tempters. _

_But there came the time that he's been in Hell longer than he's been alive._

_That time was bound to come. It was bound to come for everybody._

_The demons knew he was failing, he could see it in their gleeful eyes. He was losing his mind, losing his memories. And then came the last straw. He thought that they believed in his failure so much that they had loosened their guard on him. He got his hands on a knife they had carelessly left scattered by the table on the rack where he was tied, spread-eagled. He cut through his bonds. He got off that rack. He walked out of those torture chambers with the utmost care. As if it counted for anything._

_He was free from them for one whole day. One. Whole. Day. _

_He thought he had escaped. If not from hell, then at least from their torment. And then the day ended, and he woke up whole, and back on the rack. He cried then, cried like it would break him in half. They didn't bother torturing him that day, just let him torture himself._

_Days later, he thought maybe they got careless again. He should have known that they were only doing the last steps of killing his soul completely: they were raising all his hopes, the very _last _of his hopes, coaxing out the remnants of his strength, setting a trap to slay it, once and for all. But he didn't know it, not then. He didn't have the capacity to think that. All he knew was pain, and the desire to escape it. _

_Again, he was fool enough to think he had escaped. _If not from hell, then at least from their torment_. He didn't let the day end. He was exhausted, but did not close his eyes in sleep. He knew that if he slept, he would wake up back on the rack. His body began to overtake him. He was weary, and he was broken, and he wept when his eyes began to close against his will. He wept when his knees gave out beneath him. He looked at the knife in his hand, twisted it playfully in his vision. Thinking, it was better to die, wasn't it? Better to die than go back. Better to die than go back. Maybe if he did it himself... maybe, maybe he could just die. _

_He fell asleep. He woke up whole, and back on the rack. Again, they left the knife within his reach and he grabbed it mindlessly, sliced off his bonds with unimaginable care, and then plunged the knife straight to his heart._

_It was cathartic, a heretofore unused manner of ending the days earlier. For days afterward he did the same thing, doing their job for them. Killing himself, over and over and over. Better to die than to go back. Better to die than to go back. Better to die than to go back. Knife to the heart, with a twist to the stomach, twin slashes at the wrist. This one day, different the next. God, he did their job for them all right._

_Same thing, day in, day out. More and more he felt detached from who he was. Sometimes, he imagined being away from his body, and watching himself die. And it got easier and easier. _

_One day, he blinked and realized he was doing it to a face that wasn't his._

_"Who the hell are you?" he whispered to the person beneath him, a person who looked at him with fear, begging, begging to be spared, and crying. But he was too fargone, the cuts Dean had made on his body were too much, he was a goner._

_"I'm sorry," Dean sobbed, as he killed the guy and took him out of his misery, "I'm so sorry."_

_Many of his tortures went like that. Forgetting who he was, who was with him, what he was doing. Sometimes thinking he was hurting himself, sometimes knowing he was hurting someone else and forcing their cries out of his tortured mind by crying and begging with them, so that all he heard was himself. _

Dean shot up awake, and stumbled to the bathroom already gagging.

"Dean!" he heard his brother exclaim, even as he shut the door on Sam's face and went on hands in knees in front of the toilet. He promptly lost his lunch, and sobbed, letting the noise of the painful retching occupy the space of crying, because it was better that be heard than his tears.

He knew a thing or two about a hell so bad that death was looking too damn good to be denied, _oh yes._ How well he knew. And how much did he want this damn serial killer's head for that choice he put on the girl was just consuming him.

His brother was pounding on the door.

The aggression matched the beating of his heart.

He was dizzy, and hurting, and he wanted to sleep but he knew what awaited him there. He grabbed David Calling's pills from his pockets – never too far away now, and he knew himself enough to know they would never be too far away ever again – he grabbed two, swallowed them, closed his eyes, and just let Sam bang on the door as he collected himself.

" " "

Sasquatch paws made for the sides of his face the moment he opened the bathroom doors. Sam peered at him worriedly, searching his eyes.

"I kept trying to wake you," Sam said, "I couldn't-- you--" _Are you okay_ was inarguably a stupid question by now, so they both let it sputter off to nothing.

"I'm not," Dean admitted enough, jerking away from Sam's prying touch, heading for their six-pack stock. "But I'll deal with it."

"Let me help you," Sam said, softly.

"You can't," Dean told him, plainly, and very unnaturally calmly, as he twisted open his beer bottle and chugged half the thing in a long, indulgent gulp, "This can. I just wanna go to sleep. I'm so fucking tired."

"Dean," Sam said, helplessly, watching his older brother lie back in bed. Dean closed his eyes, just one more way he was closing out his younger brother. Sam didn't know what else to say. He just wanted this damn job done with, wanted to take the two of them away from here, maybe take a break somewhere. God knows they haven't had any time since he got his brother back and things just started going crazy all around them.

Dean's breath evened out in sleep, just passed out. Sam shook his head in dismay, and then walked over to pull the blankets gathered around Dean's legs up to the rest of him.

Dean was out cold, barely noticed Sam there. Sam grunted quietly, as he tugged at the blankets twisted beneath his brother's weight.

"You're a handful, bro," Sam said, finally disentangling the blanket with a jerk. He heard the stupid tic-tac bottle rattle in his brother's pockets again.

"You're gonna crush this in your sleep," Sam admonished him quietly, snatching the plastic container peeking out of the pocket, "Why in the world do you always have this on you? Like you're getting ready to kiss someone somewhere all the time or something--"

It took him a long, painful, _shattering_ moment to realize that it wasn't supposed to be Tic-tacs in the container.

David Calling's pills.

And the innocent-looking plastic bottle looked much emptier and lighter than the last time Sam had seen it.

"Damn it, Dean," Sam said under his breath, looking at his _drugged_, passed out and completely oblivious brother with hurt and pity and just painful, _painful_ love.

_Why won't you just talk to me?_

Sam thought back to all the times he's seen Dean jittery and shaken, and then somehow just bounce back, a little bit off, but definitely still with the program. Sam thought back to how he hesitated to touch alcoholic drinks, and then passed out after having them. It didn't take a genius to know that what Dean was doing was practically suicidal.

Sam was tempted to wake his brother up, get into this now. But he was worried, angry and hurting, and lashing out at his drugged, half-aware brother was probably not going to be productive.

Sam set his jaws, coming to a decision. He was going to make Dean talk, for his own good. One way or another.

Sam pocketed the meds.

If Dean wanted a pill to calm down, he was gonna have to open his mouth and _ask_ for it.

To be continued...


	5. Haunted, Hunted

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**Underworld**

Summary:The Winchesters stumble into the work of a serial killer running loose in New York, as if Dean's post-traumatic stress syndrome, the police, and 2 Subway ghosts weren't enough to deal with. Set between 4.08 and 4.09.

**Hi gang**!

**Wow, thank you very much for all the reviews**. They really, really, really move and motivate me. They make me want to go faster and faster and post quickly haha (can you tell? It don't even know if it's been a week since I posted Chapter 1). **More specific responses to your reviews will be posted in my Afterword**, which I've already mostly written out too. Thankfully,** I'm almost done with the once-seemingly impossible _Underworld_, which I previewed eons ago. There will likely be one more chapter, and then an Epilogue to go along with my standard Afterword**. For those who reading my work for the first time, every story I write ends with an Afterword which contains story notes on plot and characterization and, particularly for _Underworld_, historical background information and trivia and lastly, a preview of the next fic I'm working on. I really can't wait to finish this story, and I'm very thankful for the fuel of your continued readership and comments. Keep them coming if you can, I know we're all busy, but I assure you they are vastly appreciated. I hope you enjoy the next installment below!

'Til the next post!

" " "

**Underworld**

" " "

_**4: Haunted, Hunted**_

" " "

Queens, New York

2008

" " "

_Where the fuck did I put those damn pills_? Dean asked himself in a half-blind panic. Sam had his panties in a twist, yelling from outside the motel room, telling him to hurry up.

It was going to be a long day.

They were going to look for Lewis, and then they were going back down to the tunnels to stay for as long as they needed in the dead artist's haunted hole to see if the moving paintings can give them some sort of a clue on the case. Dean didn't know how long they had to be down there, and he needed the damn pills to survive, so _where the hell could he have put them_?!

He was so zonked out the night before that for the life of him he just couldn't imagine where it could be. His pocket was the sensible choice, but it wasn't there, and it wasn't in any of his other clothes pockets, wasn't on the ground, under the bed, on the tables, in the bathroom... he was tossing aside sheets and covers and clothes when Sam appeared by the door, frowning at him.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked, impatiently, "Let's _go_."

He stared at Sam. His younger brother blinked, and then turned away. Didn't wait for an answer, didn't offer help, which was uncharacteristic...

And then _just like that!_, as easily as they knew each other inside out, he _knew_. Knew in a flash and without a shadow of a doubt, exactly where his damn pills were. By how Sam had averted his eyes, Dean guessed Sam knew he knew too.

_Sam, you sneaky bastard_, he thought, foreseeing that the day was going to be one of their I-know-you-know-I-know-you-know-I-know-you-know-tangos again.

Dean took a deep, calming breath. _You wanna play?_ He thought bitterly, _Fine. We'll play_.

"Nothing," Dean said, trying to keep his voice level, walking toward the door, "I'm right behind you, little brother."

_Might just knock you out over the head while I'm at it, God help me_.

" " "

The Subway System

New York, New York

" " "

The Winchesters found Lewis at the Grand Central Station sometime in the mid-afternoon, but no amount of money or cigarettes would get him to lead them into the slain artist's former hole. Coercion got them a fairly clear set of directions, however, and so the brothers set off back to the tunnels on their own.

Neither brother had bothered to raise the David Calling Pill issue yet, and Dean had a stinking feeling he knew exactly why. Sam wanted him to start yapping, and he had no intention whatsoever of giving in to his kid brother, _oh no_. It was a game, wasn't it? And when did he ever back down?

But to be fair to Sam, Dean also knew in his gut that this wasn't just some contest to Sam. Sam would never fuck around with his head like this, just 'cos he was trying to drive home a point or something like that. This was _infinitely_ worse. This was Sam at his most determined, Sam at his most committed. Sam truly believed that having a Barbara Walters interview moment was therapeutic and could help his brother, and he was not going to back down out of forcing Dean to talk, because it was_ for his own good. _Sam was dead serious, and Dean wanted to wring his neck, take him to the ground, and then kick him when he's down there.

Still... it was easier to be angry if he thought of all this as a game. Easier to be angry, easier to be determined to win. Especially when the smells of abused humanity started to engulf his senses again and when the memories started to come and he started to shake, the very moment he and Sam stood side by side at the alley they have been using as an entrance down into the tunnels.

"You ready for this?" Sam asked, and it was a loaded question, wasn't it? As loaded as when he had asked Dean what he was doing, at the beginning of the day.

"I'm always ready," Dean lied.

"Here we go," Sam declared, calling out his bluff.

Sam stepped forward.

Dean did too.

Another step, and then another.

It was beginning to feel like a Western shoot-out, except the two of them were coming from the same side. Maybe it was like a Chicken Race. Or a staring game. _Whatever_. Was Sam gonna let Dean go back to the tunnels this shaky and unprepared? Was Dean gonna go in, knowing he was endangering not only himself but also Sam? Who was gonna break first?

Dean _almost always_ broke first.

"You're honestly letting me go back down there all messed up like this?" he asked Sam angrily, grabbing him by the arm.

"And you'd rather go down there and be a danger to yourself and to me," Sam snapped back, "Than face up to what you need?"

"I wasn't gonna go down there and endanger you, you doofus," Dean pointed out, "I broke, didn't I? But you--"

"I wouldn't have taken it that far," Sam argued, "But that's not the point now. We gotta talk about this, Dean."

"Just gimme it back and shut up."

"Give you what back?" Sam challenged.

"Don't make me _take_ it back," Dean threatened.

"Yeah when was the last time that worked?" Sam snapped, "What do you need back, Dean?"

"I don't need it," Dean said, darkly, "It would just make dealing with you slightly more bearable!"

"What do you need, Dean?" Sam demanded.

"I need you to back the fuck off, that's what!" Dean exclaimed, "God, Sam. You gonna make me say this? Are you actually, gonna fucking make me say this? When have I ever had to push you like this, huh? For anything? When?"

Sam bit back his tongue. Dean tried to push him, once... about him using his powers. That fight went dirty_ fast, _didn't it? Samhad said _I can't make you understand_, and Dean had said _Try_. Sam didn't bother. He had written Dean off, hadn't he? _This blood is not in you like it's in me_... and in the end, he just _stopped_. But now he knew full-well that it hurt to be shut out, especially when you know the person you love is going down a dark road. _Damn_ but he knew that _now_. He knew only too well...

"I need you to back off," Dean went on angrily, "I told you already, Sam. I won't lie anymore, but I can't talk about this, I can't make you understand, there are no words, there's nothing anyone can do--"

"You don't know that!" Sam argued, "Just... just give me a chance. Give me a chance, bro. You gotta, you gotta give me a chance. Try _me _before you hit the damn drugs. I read up on this when you were _passed out _like a junkie--"

Dean winced at the idea of himself, becoming some sort of a substance abuser.

Sam could not have missed it, and took the point home for all that it was worth, "You're gonna be an addict first before you even _try_ talking to me? You're gonna risk killing yourself first before you _try_ talking to me?!"

"Killing myself?" Dean scoffed, "Maybe _you_ need to take a chill pill, drama queen. I kn--"

"Know what you're doing?" Sam snapped, "Know what you're doing, right? You do? Look around here, Dean." He lowered his voice self-consciously, nodding at the blitzed people on the alleyway, some passed-out drunk, others drugged to their eyeballs, "I'm not gonna lie to you. I've seen something like this damn scene begin in the car, and I've seen this scene in our room--"

"Overreacting," Dean muttered, but refusing to look at the people Sam was referring to.

"Just try, Dean," Sam implored him, "Please. That's all I want. _Try_. You told me I can talk about anything I want to, maybe we can talk about this."

"I meant about you talking, not me!"

"It's killing _me_ to know you're doing this," Sam said shifting the persona of his request in accordance with Dean's point, "That's what _I_ wanna say. _I _need you to try to talk, that's what _I_ wanna say. _I _want you to be safe, that's what _I_ wanna say. _I _know this is gonna kill you if you're not careful, that's what_ I _wanna say. _I _know _I _can't watch you die right?"

Dean stared at him, angrily. "I seldom ask you for anything, Sam. But for god's sake, drop this. Now's not the time, and this sure as hell ain't the place. It's gonna take me awhile and trust me, anytime I feel like crying like a whining little bitch about this, I know who to call and who can kiss and make everything better, got that? In the meantime, we gotta work here and now, and the damn pills work _here and now_. I'm telling you, whether or not you give it to me, I'm going down there 'cos we _have to _go down there. You want me survive the trip? You gotta help me out. Now gimme."

Sam stared at him for a long moment. Setting his jaws in irritation, he crossed his arms over his chest as if to argue further, but when he opened up his palms, one of his hands had a pill on it.

"I take two," Dean said, primly. He liked to think he was just being subversive, and that he didn't need that much that desperately, _not really_--

"You'll take it easy," Sam said, "You aren't even supposed to be taking _someone else's_ prescription in the first place, Dean. I told you I read up on this and this is serious, hardcore meds we got here. Here's one. Live with it."

"Nice parlor trick there, Copperfield," Dean said grumpily, taking the pill and swallowing it dry, vowing to himself that one way or another, he'd find wherever on Sam's body he was hiding the pills. Nothing short of the pills being hidden in his younger brother's underwear could stop him. He led the way forward in an angry huff. Sam stood back, and Dean felt like his back was burning with his brother's watchful eyes.

"You comin' or what?" Dean asked, impatiently.

"I'm coming."

" " "

The eyes on then pillars beneath the words _Look_ were making no qualms at all about watching them now, tracking them as they walked, conveying a very weird expression of caution and optimism, like they've been waiting to be acknowledged for a long, long time.

Sam stopped in front of one of the pillars, and Dean watched warily as the freaky eyes disconcertingly stared at Sam.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked him sarcastically, "Having a staring game with the disembodied eyes too, huh? You gotta win all the time, Sammy?"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam said, "I'm looking for his 'tag,' you know? The artist's signature. Lewis said he went by the name Ted. I just wanted to check -- there it is."

Sam tapped on the lower right corner of the graffiti, "Yup, the owner of Lewis' haunted hole is the same guy who made this."

"Haunted hole," Dean chuckled to himself, "Ever thought we'd get into something like this? A _Haunted Hole_."

"Yeah," Sam said, and Dean could hear a small smile on his face.

They walked for a mile or two, lugging their duffel bags of supplies along with them. They didn't know how long they would be staying at the so-christened 'Haunted Hole,' or what they would need while they were there, after all.

"Does this count as camping?" Dean asked, pensively. Sam noticed that he was much more calm now, and it was probably the pill kicking in, allowing him to take not only the tunnels, but his conflict with his younger brother more lightly.

"I think so, why?" Sam asked.

"We just have a really sucky track record camping, that's all," Dean replied, "And I got a feeling this one's gonna be right up there with the rest of 'em."

They passed by several people, who kind of just shuffled away from them. Two large grown men in the tunnels were threatening to anyone, and they all just wanted to mind their own businesses. But Sam felt Dean stiffen beside him every time they passed by any children, or young teenagers. But he bit his tongue and said nothing, at least for now.

They turned a corner, and then another. The tunnels were long, and winding, and easy to get lost in.

"Wish I brought breadcrumbs," Sam murmured.

"Yeah good luck having anything left to find on your way home, Gretel," Dean said, "'Cos between the people here who might not have any qualms about picking up whatever food you drop, and the rats, I think it's safe to say leaving breadcrumbs isn't the way to leave yourself markers down here."

"You know the weird thing is," said Sam, "Many of the homeless don't quite go so hungry? I read somewhere, that between all the food people throw out, and all the restaurants and everything, it's easier to get food in New York than it is to get a little dignity."

"Oh so you should have brought breadcrumbs."

"I should have brought breadcrumbs," Sam agreed, mock-gravely.

The brothers slipped into a long, narrow tunnel not far from where the ghost blond came out. They slipped inside, and walked a few steps deeper within. The walls here were less chaotic than in the rest of the tunnels; it was apparent that, as Lewis told them, no one wanted to go in there. It was even exempt from disorganized, violent graffiti; the deeper they went into Ted's Tunnel, more and more of his elaborate art pieces lined the walls.

"Wow," Dean breathed, stopping before a long, winding depiction of Da Vinci's _The Last Supper_ lining one wall. It was half finished, and they supposed the artist was murdered before he finished it. _Ironic_.

Sam smiled to himself, watching his older brother's wide eyes just devour the half-painting. They should go to the museums while they're here... the Met would be a sight to see, wouldn't it? He's only been there once or twice before in the years that he was away from his family, but he had a feeling Dean probably hasn't had the chance to go. They should do things like that after everything they've been through, and before all the shit hits the fan with this (disconcertingly trivial-sounding) _apocalypse-thing_.

"But what the heck is this?" Dean asked, turning to the next piece, which was a turn toward the more modern and abstract. He wrinkled his nose at it in dismay. In music, cars and art, apparently, Dean leaned toward the classic. Funny, Sam had never quite been able to reconcile the idea of his brother being a semblance of conservative_, _though.

"Come on," Sam said, patting him on the shoulder. One side of the long hallway opened up to a small hole, more of a bunker really, large enough for a queen-sized mattress and a few knick-knacks. Everything that Ted owned looked like they were still there; cans of paint in an organized, if heavily dusted pile, plastic bottles half-filled with water... as if the owner just went out for a few minutes. The only indication that he was actually never coming back was all the blood crusted on the bed.

The walls all around the bunker - the curving ceiling, the sides, the one at the end where the bed was backed up against and even the floor - was painted. Ted made a mural of life underground that was intricate, and very precise. It depicted scenes from the tunnels – trains, ladders, sewers, light bulbs, graffiti, people... The depiction was so incredibly detailed, that when Dean narrowed his eyes and focused on one person painted to the size of his index finger, he noted that the figure was holding a half-empty bottle of Diet Coke.

"My god," Sam breathed.

"So do we wait for them to move, or what?" Dean asked, distractedly, similarly awed.

"I think we should look if he painted any skinny blonds first," Sam said, "And then if anything moves, follow that."

"At least the room's small," Dean said, without heat, or any real grudging. He didn't seem at all bothered to be looking closely at the artwork from every possible corner of the room.

" " "

There were many stories drawn on Ted's wall.

Dean had spotted people depicted as teenagers and then depicted as men, their clothes smaller on them, their faces more lined. There were people on journeys, people dying, people giving birth, people going up ladders and holes and never to appear again. Maybe they died and the ascent was figurative, or maybe they just went back up to the surface. It looked like one of those _Where's Waldo?_ books his father could never be bothered to buy, that he and Sam used to flip over in the stores when they were kids, except the colors were duller and the faces looked more grave.

The EMF meter in his pocket began to whine, and he and Sam glanced at each other warily, and then around the room.

"Talk to us, Ted," Dean muttered.

"Dean, there," Sam said quietly, pointing toward the far corner of the room. It was a painting of silver railroad tracks gathering light, the way the headlights would follow it just before the arrival of a train.

"Unbelievable," Dean breathed, awed, and it felt like they were watching some sort of a macabre cartoon or something. The train inched toward a peopled platform, and then suddenly, figures from all around the room speed-walked for the train, like it was rush hour. They looked like long-legged bugs walking against the floors and the walls.

_All _the people in the paintings crammed into the trains. The train's doors closed, and it moved along, and took away all the people in the mural along with it. For a long moment, everything was still, and the brothers looked around, whipping their heads, trying to find the next source of movement.

Uniformed MTA personnel started appearing from various entrances in the painting. They were cleaning up, changing shifts and putting up signs, something about weekend service changes. Maintenance work done on weekends tended to shift around the routes of the trains a little, and the MTA had to put up signs informing people of alternate routes they could take instead.

"He's telling us what time it is," Sam murmured.

Dean agreed, but said nothing. The disappearance of the crowds and the appearance of the personnel meant that Ted was telling them what he knew probably happened very late at night to very early in the day.

The bustling activity of the tiny, finger-sized MTA personnel almost made him miss the discreet movements at a dark corner of the wall, where a tall, lean man was walking down the length of a tunnel, dragging along an unconscious blond woman by the ankle, her limp body bouncing against the ground. He gripped Sam's arm tight, opened his mouth to tell Sam what he was seeing, except Sam had already spotted it.

"I see it," his younger brother said.

The man moved like an animal that knew exactly where it was going. Precise, unhesitating. _Unseen_. He went on with his business unchecked, even as the personnel cleaned and worked just steps away from him; steps above him, or steps below him, or parallel to him, just a wall away. He crawled and crept, appearing at odd corners of the mural. Going inside a hole painted on the mural on the roof, and then appearing on the floor by Dean's boots. Dean was almost tempted to step on the bastard, even as he understood how futile it was.

The woman he was dragging along jerked awake. She struggled, and fought. But she was no match for the beast in his realm, no match at all. He had even thrown back his head and laughed when she kicked herself free and started running. He ducked into a dark hole and caught her in his arms a corner later. She struggled. He tore off her clothes, and tore into her flesh. She screamed.

Dean watched the show, his body shaking, and was suddenly struck by the realization that the entire moving painting was without a sound, and that the only noise in the room was his screaming EMF meter and his own ragged breathing. Sam was quiet and focused beside him.

The kidnapper locked her in a windowless, dank bunker and left her in the dark. There were other women with her. Several of them were dead, or headed that way fast. The stronger ones were bound with ropes. She screamed, and screamed, mouth open, eyes terrified. But Dean couldn't hear her. No one could hear her.

She calmed in exhaustion and sat in a corner, kicking at the rats that started to bite, rats that gained more guts to come closer to her as she grew more tired of kicking them away.

The trains came again and the people came again, and she was just a short walk away from the peopled platforms, but no one knew she was there. And then the people vanished, signaling the arrival of the late hours, and her tormentor returned at the end of the day too. He tortured one of the women in front of her. She was scared enough to have been pliant that night when he pressed a kiss to her mouth.

The scenes moved faster, from night to day, and day to night, one after the other. Dean watched as she grew thinner and thinner and weaker and weaker. A few more women were brought into the bunker and were similarly tied, and similarly tortured. Not many lasted, but she did. Somehow she did, but Dean knew she wouldn't, not for long, not when the rats came in the dark and she didn't bother shaking them off anymore.

One day, the bricks behind her had loosened; the wall was weakened by water, weathering, her struggles, and cruel fate. Her eyes were large and panicked and also hopeful. She tore at the bricks, just tore at them. Her fingers bled, her nails broke and yet she felt nothing. She just dug, and tore, and cried out triumphantly when she had made a hole large enough to just barely fit into. The other women were to weak or too dead to come with her. Dean watched her mouth a promise to get help.

She slipped into the hole, and out to 'freedom.' She didn't know where she was going, but she was going away; _if not from hell, then at least from the torment. _

She ran down the long, dark hallway toward the sound of the trains. Dean's breath caught, as if he was running with her again, running away from torment, running away from torment...

Her torturer entered the bunker to find her gone, and to find the hole she had escaped into. He goes out the same way, running after her. She looks behind her, realizes she's being followed, and then runs faster. He catches up easily, and then she stands at the tracks, weighing a life with a monster or death by train.

_Die or go back? Die or go back? Die or go back...?_

And Dean felt like he was standing with her again. When he was in hell, _he_ had picked death. He had picked death countless times. She, on the other hand, picked death _for a little while_, and then stood in wait for the train to take her down.

She closed her eyes, and waited.

The train was taking its sweet time. She peeled her eyes open, and promptly lost her nerve. She stepped away from the tracks, crying in deep, jarring disappointment, turning away from the train, turning away from freedom in death, and slamming right into the waiting arms of her laughing tormentor.

He grabs her tight, like a possession. She jerks against him, and her eyes widen when she catches sight of a man watching them.

_Help!_, her mouth moved, silently. Her body made agitated motions, and Dean watched her soundless mouth, crying, over and over, _Help!_ Her torturer looks over her head, and finds himself being watched. He breaks her neck to still her, as if it was nothing. He grabs the woman by the ankle again, dragging her back to his lair. He retreated backwards, steely eyes settling on the wide, fearful ones of the artist as he slunk back in the dark. His steely eyes promised the witness that this would not be the last that they have seen of each other. The artist just scurries away, away to his own business. They did that down here a lot, just scurry away, mind your own crap.

But the monster was never like them. The murals take on an even eerier quality when they started depicting the hallways Dean and Sam had just passed through. The artist was working on _The Last Supper _when the monster came for him, backing him toward the very bunker where they now stood. They watched the monster murder the artist, just bash him around, literally beat him to death. Blood painted the walls. Blood painted everything.

Dean's breath hitched at the sights.

They looked like hell.

Blood and tears and futile screaming and sheer violence. The faces of the blond and the artist and the monster's other victims enlarged in his mind, merged with his own, merged with those he had hurt. It was hard to breathe again, hard to be still again, hard to be _himself_ again.

Ted fell on his bed, dead.

All movement in the murals died and fell still with him, faded back to unmoving art.

Sam took a deep breath beside Dean, who swayed dizzily, absently grabbing at his brother's arm for balance.

"What a trip," he rasped, feeling his body trembling.

"So the girl's body must be behind that wall we marked," Sam said, quietly, "Probably a few more bodies with her. We gotta go call Detective Dancy, tell him what we know. I don't know how he'll believe us, but I'm sure we'll figure out a way to explain all this. We gotta. If that monster's out there, they're gonna need that crime scene free from any salting and burning, right?"

"Right," Dean agreed, quietly, "Right."

He felt Sam's eyes on him in the dark, "Dean?"

"It's fucking cold down here," he said quietly, stumbling away from Sam. He grabbed at the wall for balance, then all but reeled away from it, disgusted by its depiction of the things he had just seen; rape, bondage, torture, murder, blood, screaming--

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, catching him by the shoulders, "Come on, we're getting out of here, we need some air."

Bewildered, Dean let himself be dragged along. He didn't know where they were headed, and it sure felt like Sam had a built-in GPS in his head or maybe he did bring breadcrumbs after all, because he knew precisely where to go. Dean didn't mind the bossiness. He was walking half-blind and heavy, and he just wanted out of there. He wanted out of this damned _case_, as a matter of fact.

Fresh air touched his face when they broke into the street. He closed his eyes and turned up his head at the evening skies, feeling like he had just _escaped_.

" " "

The brothers took over a booth by a large window in a bar on 42nd street, the closest one to their exit when they emerged from underground. It was a typically noisy Monday night with a decent football game on.

Sam already knew what he wanted to order, but pretended to look through the menu longer, giving his older brother a chance to come around back to himself. Dean was just staring at his, pretending to pick an order, flipping absently after a few moments, then flipping back, glassy eyes unseeing.

Sam wanted Dean to talk to him, _god_ he wanted it, felt like Dean needed something from him, he just couldn't put his finger on what. If Dean talked, maybe they'd both find out. The idea of Dean talking though, much as he wanted it, was terrifying too. The last times Dean had opened up to him about what goes on in that overburdened head of his, the things that came out were humbling, and enough to break a man. Sometimes, he actually wondered how Dean survived.

Sam watched him from the corner of his eye. Dean's gaze gradually gained more focus, as if he was physically drawing himself back to the present, back away from his memories.

_Come on back, bro, come on back_... he urged him, mentally. But what he said instead was, "Pretty good selection, huh?"

"This sounds good, doesn't it?" Dean asked Sam, lifting up the menu and pointing at a random dish. Sam knew it was random because it was a salad, something Dean would rather have jumped off a cliff than eat. Dean's voice was also uncharacteristically quiet and subdued, but at this point, Sam was willing to take anything.

"Sounds great, Dean," he replied.

"All right, so that's me," Dean said, rubbing his trembling hands earnestly, flipping the menu closed and leaning back in this seat. Sam resolved to order him a bacon cheeseburger and fries, just to avoid complications in their lives.

"So this job's almost done, huh?" Dean asked, leaning back, and he looked more than a little bit worn against the seat, like it was going to swallow him. He had shed his coat and dispassionately left it on the floor of the coat room by the entrance of the establishment, even if he was still shivering with cold.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, as he called for a waitress, "Who'd have thought it?"

"We're calling Dancy tonight, right?" Dean asked, "Get this over with right quick?"

"After dinner," Sam said, "I'm starving, and we gotta figure out what to say."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "No right-thinking New York detective's gonna let two grown men drag his sorry ass to the tunnels and expect to come out of it alive, for sure. It better be good."

"Well you're lucky I'm good," Sam boasted. Dean just rolled his eyes and waved his hand in dismissal.

"I'm actually relieved you've changed your mind about ganking this killer yourself," Sam said.

"Oh make no mistake, Sammy," Dean breathed, "I _want _him dead. I want him taken out in the worst possible way. But like you and Bobby said... I don't want to risk him walking. And the families of all the people he killed... it's their closure to get, you know? Not mine. I don't wanna take that from them. We can just point the dicks in the right direction, and then we can fly on out of here. I hope the cops find whatever they need to find in that bunker to nail this bastard. We've all but served them this case on a fricking plate."

"They likely would, I think," Sam said, "Close-contact crimes like this one would leave a lot of DNA from the perp."

"They didn't find anything solid on Alice Frye's body though," Dean pointed out, "Or on the other two girls found earlier. Or on the artist. This prick's good."

"Maybe it's just a numbers game," Sam said, "More bodies, more chances for him to have made a mistake. And it's gonna be his lair down there, Dean. Something should turn up that will point to him. You know... there's something I don't understand though. How come some of the bodies were found and the others weren't?"

"Died trying to escape is the only thing I can guess," Dean said, "Alice Frye died of drowning, right? Maybe she jumped from somewhere thinking she could survive the swim. Can't be hard to believe something like that happened to the other two. What I don't get is the timeline."

"I know what you mean," Sam agreed, "If our subway ghost has been dead a long time, at least as long as the artist at any rate, why did the haunting start just a month ago? And why just the weekends?"

Their waitress, a petite, spitfire blond named 'Gladys' appeared by Sam's elbow with a big smile, "Okay, gents. Big kitchen closes in a few and then after that all we have's the liquor and dessert. If you want anything hot to eat, now's the time to say so."

She jotted down their food orders and a beer for Sam and harder liquor for Dean, and was turning to leave before Dean called her back.

"Anything else I can getcha?" she asked.

"You got pie?" he asked, making Sam smile.

"I'll make sure to cut you a nice big slice and bring it over after dinner," she guaranteed with a wink.

"Hey Gladys," said Dean, "How long have you been working here?"

"A little over a month," she shrugged, "Why?"

"And you take the subway home?"

"Doesn't everybody?" she asked, a dimple appearing on her cheek, "I take the one around the corner from here."

"You know of anything weird happening down there, like maybe a month ago?" Dean asked.

"Not really," she shrugged, "Wait, what do you mean weird? There were those train accidents..."

"Before that," Dean clarified, "Like, uh... did they open a new section? Change a route? Some sort of construction, or demolition?"

Sam followed his brother's train of thought. Massive changes in infrastructure could stir awake some spirits after all.

"Nope," she replied, "No, nothing out of the ordinary." She sighed, "Just those standard weekend service changes that happen once in awhile, makes my commute all the harder, you know?"

"Wait, what do you mean?" Dean asked, leaning forward.

"Last month they started weekend maintenance on the line that takes me home," she says, "Basically, they close down a section of the usual route for maintenance, and open up another one to reroute my train. They've been doing it every weekend for the last few weeks--" she glanced up at someone waving at her from behind the bar, "I really gotta get your orders to the kitchen, guys."

"Oh yeah, of course," Dean said, "Thanks."

"I guess that's your answer," Sam said, satisfied, "Good thinking, bro."

Dean's lip quirked, "You know what else that gets us?"

"What?"

"An alternate route in," Dean said, "We figure out what that construction opens up on a weekend and closes on a weekday, and maybe we don't have to tear down a wall to see what's behind it. It may preserve evidence better too or some shit like that if we don't have to go in with a hammer, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, leaning back when Gladys returned with their drinks.

"Leave the bottle," Dean said, grinning up at her in that way of his that got him most of the things he wanted.

"Dean--" Sam began, but his older brother tossed him a glare.

"Sure thing," Gladys said, a little bit cautiously, glancing at Sam, and then back at Dean, "You're not a troublemaker, are you? 'Cos I'm almost on my way home, so you shouldn't make a mess of everything."

"I can hold my drink," Dean said, "Scout's honor."

"Scouts never have to swear on drinking, jerk," she said with a laugh, but she was disarmed already, and Sam knew it was a losing battle. She looked at Sam, "This'll be on your head then."

"Mine?!" Sam asked, indignant, as she left. He frowned at Dean, the real source of his disapproval. His brother had already downed half a glass, and was breathing out his awe at the burn going down his throat.

"_Now_ I'm warm," he said, satisfied.

"Dean, seriously?" Sam asked, "We're not done with the job, here."

"We're almost done," Dean said, "And I don't plan on getting drunk, Sammy. I just need to take the edge off." He burped, and Sam blanched at the smell of the whiskey that drifted his way.

"That dang thing's toxic," Sam said, "Dean, cut it out. Getting Dancy to believe us is hard enough without him smelling that on your breath."

"Well we're lucky you're good then," Dean sneered, reaching for the bottle. Sam slapped his hand on top of his brother's, and prohibitively kept it there. Dean's hand was cold, making his own feel like they were burning.

"No."

Dean tugged at the bottle experimentally. Sighed, as if in defeat. Sam knew better though, and wisely kept his hold, especially since Dean pulled harder a second later.

"Leggo," Dean told him, eyes darkening, turning to steel.

"I don't think so," Sam said.

"You wanna make a scene here?" Dean snapped.

"I don't care," Sam snapped back, "You've had--"

"Not nearly enough," Dean cut him off, "You gonna take away everything, Sammy? You gonna hang onto everything? I let this go and let you have it, then what? What's to stop me from the next place, the next bottle, huh? You can't stop me. You can't stop... any of this, so _stop _wasting both our damn time."

"But I can't," Sam stammered, looking at Dean earnestly, "I can't not-try, Dean. I just... I _can't _not-try."

Both their grips loosened at the same, breathless instant. They both let the bottle go uneasily, Sam giving in to Dean's defeated resignation, and Dean giving in to his brother's damn puppy-dog eyes.

"Ever heard of _The Gift of the Magi_?" Sam asked, in the awkward quiet.

"The what of the fricking what?!"

"Never mind."

The food came, to both their reliefs.

"I knew it was gonna be awesome," Dean grinned, eyes glittering with appreciation as his bacon cheeseburger was laid before him. He rubbed his hands excitedly.

Sam pressed his hands to his face, wanting to kill his brother and hug him at the same time. He chuckled wearily, just because he couldn't cry.

" " "

Of course Dean knew what _The Gift of the Magi_ was.

It was a classic Christmas story about a poor husband and wife who were scraping together funds to buy presents for each other. The woman had beautiful long hair, and so she had it cut and sold to buy her husband a gold chain for his only valuable possession, a watch. Not knowing this, the husband had sold his watch to buy her combs for her beautiful hair. Christmas comes along and they end up with a chain for a lost watch, and combs for lost hair. Some people would say that's just a shitty situation. Others... _most_, actually, would find it pretty sweet.

The Whiskey bottle stood between the brothers, untouched now, like the fricking _Gift of the Magi_, symbolic of Sam giving in to what Dean needed, and Dean giving in to what Sam needed, and now it just stood there, kind of lonely looking. Life was funny like that, but he'd rather focus on the bacon cheeseburger.

"So what do we wanna say to Dancy?" Dean asked.

"I'm thinking," Sam replied, "I'm thinking we can say we heard the homeless--"

"_Disadvantaged transients_," Dean corrected him gamely, grinning through a full mouth.

Sam smiled at him sourly, "We were doing research on the book, conducting interviews and things like that, and then the same story keeps coming up, about a hidden bunker with a bunch of dead bodies. We can say they said it smelled funny and never went in there. We'll say we thought it might be a lead on their case, and would they want to look into it, 'cos we definitely will, and would hate to mess up any potential evidence or get into trouble with the law. They'll consider it a tip. Dancy'll go on in with a bunch of uniforms to look into it, 'cos they have to."

"And if he doesn't bite?" Dean asked.

"Then we go that alternate route without destroying the wall," Sam shrugged, "Get them better proof to pay more attention. It could be pictures, it could be samples, it could be a damn finger, anything. But they'll pay attention. This will all be sorted before she haunts again on the weekend. No one should get hurt anymore."

"Good," Dean said, approvingly, "And anyway if Dancy doesn't bite, we can deal with this fucker ourselves, which might be nice too."

"Nice," Sam snorted, "Not exactly the word I'd use."

Sam's phone began to ring. He looked at the caller ID, and then back at Dean, surprised. "It's Dancy."

"Maybe he's got an answer on those rope burns," Dean said, making urgent gestures with his hands, "Pick it up, dude."

"Hello?" Sam answered, pressing the phone to his ear.

The bar erupted in a loud cheer. Someone had scored a touchdown.

"I can't hear you!" Sam yelled into his phone, "Hang on!"

"Go," Dean nodded to Sam, who made a motion to tell Dean he was picking up the call away from the noise. Gladys went up to their table as Sam rose and excused himself. She put a plate of pie before Dean.

"Here you go," she said, again with the dimples.

"Thanks," Dean smiled up at her. She hung back, a little hesitantly.

"You know," she said, "You shouldn't leave a tip for when you pay the bill."

"Why not?" he asked her.

"'Cos I'm on my way out, and it won't go to me," she said, lip turning upward, flirtatiously, "I'm off in a few minutes, as a matter of fact. Maybe you wanna save your money so you can take me out instead."

He reddened, and chuckled at her nerve. She was younger than Sam but far gutsier, fresh, looked like she was all grubby hands, like a selfish little girl. He's unfortunately lost his taste for that sort of broad a long time ago. He was hoping he'd get it back, maybe when he hits age eighty or something, like Hugh Hefner.

Contrary to popular belief, there was actually a part of him that was very shy, especially about getting picked up so openly like this. He liked to be the one on the driver's seat, after all. He averted his eyes, looked out the window instead of her steady, unflinchingly expectant gaze.

His eye caught something in the dark.

His hunter's senses tingled. Was he being watched?

Dean glanced up at Gladys. _Skinny, blond_, twenty-something, oblivious Gladys, who works and walks the 42nd street hunting ground of a serial killer.

No, he wasn't being watched.

The skinny blond was.

" " "

"Detective Dancy," Sam said, as he slipped into the men's restroom where it was relatively quiet, "I was just about to call you."

"You were absolutely right, Perry," Dancy said, gruffly, "The rope burns have the exact same patterns."

"Does that help at all?" Sam asked, "I mean, how many possible kinds of ropes are there anyway?"

"This one's very distinct," Dancy said, "Takes a certain kind of material that could leave a depth of imprint and discoloration like this. And the pattern is very old-school, not very many companies do it like this. It helps enough for us to believe the murderer in the three cases is one and the same, and that's a good start. Pool all the evidence together from all three bodies and we might actually get somewhere."

"Good," Sam breathed, but paused, cautiously, "But you're not just keeping us in the loop out of gratefulness for our help, right?"

"Of course not," Dancy said, flatly, "I'm just telling you not to skip town. If this thing gets any bigger, I'm gonna need to grill you harder about where you got all this stuff."

"I was just going to call you, actually, I got another tip," Sam said.

"Yeah?" Dancy asked, "Another one? You sure you're not the killer, just fucking around with my head?"

"You can call me a lot of things," Sam smirked, channeling some of Dean's style, "But I'm not self-destructive. Why would I want to help you, if I was the killer?"

"'Cos you're the _killer_," Dancy replied, simply, "You're brain-fucked. I don't know. Why _are_ you helping?"

"I want you to be a resource for the book we're working on," Sam said, "Full cooperation, decent, honest, open information, and I don't want you talking to anybody else but us. Crack a big case for you, crack a big book deal for me."

Dancy was a good man, but he was logical and practical to a fault too. Sam had picked up his number along the length of this conversation. Dancy wasn't going to understand generosity, as much as he would understand self-interest. If Sam wanted to be more credible, he had to be a little bit more selfish.

"As long as my bosses clear any of the information I tell you," Dancy said, "And I get to check anything you attribute to me, and if your info is good...I don't see why not."

"I know where the other bodies could be."

Sam's revelation was met with silence. That was Dancy's jaw on the ground, _oh yeah_.

"You don't pull any punches, do you, kid?"

"I guess not," Sam said, "Ever heard of the Whitechapel murders, detective? More popularly known by its perpetrator, Jack the Ripper. One of the theories on how he managed to get away with the killings unseen was that he used the London sewers."

"What about it?"

"We think that's what's going on here," Sam said, "We were interviewing the homeless for our book, and the same thing kept popping up, about some trumped up story about a bunker with bodies hidden inside, a tunnel that smells so funky no one would go into it."

"They also say the devil lives in the tunnels," Dancy snorted, "And there's a croc in the sewers..."

"Smoke and fire, detective," Sam pointed out, pausing when his phone started to beep, indicating there was someone on call-waiting. But he was close, and he knew he almost had Dancy buying his crap so hurriedly, he said, "Smoke and fire. Tyler and I are checking it out for sure. I just wanted to give you first dibs. If you don't find it and we find anything, it'll be a great story for us. If we get accused of murder or tampering with evidence or something, we can just say we gave the tip to the cops but they ignored us."

Dancy took a deep breath, and Sam knew he had him when he muttered "Cocky little prick."

"Just doing my civic duty," Sam said primly, "Wanna meet up so we can go?"

"Yeah kid, sure, whatever," Dancy said, "But I ain't going alone. I'm bringing in some uniforms to back me up. And we'll bring you and your buddy in, incidentally, if you're wasting my damn time."

"I don't expect anything less," Sam grinned.

" " "

Dean peered closer out the window, and just-caught the jerky movement of a figure in the dark that had just realized it was being watched right back.

"Fine," Gladys said, cutting into Dean's thoughts, "Be that way. All you had to say was 'no--'"

"Don't go home alone," Dean told her as he rose to his feet.

"What--"

"For god's sake," he said, pushing past her, "Listen to me. Don't go home alone."

He grabbed his phone, as his eyes raked around the room for Sam. Sam was usually easy to find, but the bar had all sorts of large, tall men watching the game, on their feet, pumping their meaty fists in the air, obscuring his view. He dialed Sam's number, even as he pushed his way out the door, scanning the area for either Sam or the man who had been watching Gladys.

Sam wasn't picking up, probably in-deep on his conversation with Dancy. Dean hung up after two rings. If that killer was the one watching and he realized that Dean had caught his scent, he was probably running by now.

Dean reached for the gun he kept against his back, as he cautiously jogged to the street where he had seen the figure, the street in front of their booth window. He walked to where he had last seen him, a few feet away from the window. He could see Gladys talking to a large man at the bar, making excited gestures with her hands, including a whirling finger by the side of her head, as if indicating someone was crazy.

Dean suspected that someone was him. He smirked, unable to help himself. She'll probably never know he had just saved her life, but what was so new about that?

He looked around cautiously, but the street was empty.

He caught his breath, and lowered his gun.

"Damn it," he muttered, shaking his head.

His phone suddenly rang, making him start. His slight jump made a light clinking sound, and it was the first time he noticed that he wasn't standing on concrete sidewalk, but standing on the metal of the subway grates that peppered the concrete.

There was a part of him that knew, just _knew_ what was going to happen.

Still, he looked down, because that was what he was supposed to do, wasn't it?

He saw long, spindly white fingers right next to his boots curl around the bars of the grates, a beat before the metal just _vanished_ beneath his feet, sending him plunging into the merciless dark with a surprised cry.

" " "

Sam gave the detective the directions to the bar, and then ended his call to Dancy. He looked at his missed call list, and frowned when he saw that it was Dean.

He called back his brother, heard it ring until it got abruptly cut off. He walked back to their booth, brows furrowing when he noted that Dean wasn't there, his pie was pristine and untouched, and, the other possible distraction that could have taken Dean away from the table – the blond waitress was by the bar, talking to the bartender with wild gestures.

Dean couldn't have been in the bathroom, Sam just came from there. He went outside, looked left and right, thinking maybe Dean had gone out to grab some air.

"Huh," he murmured, going back inside the bar. The noise was killing him, these huge men cheering at their damn teams, while his brother was missing.

"Gladys," he said, walking up to the waitress, trying to remain calm, "Have you seen m'brother?"

"He's a fucking weirdo!" she exclaimed, "I was asking him out and he really should have just up and said no, instead of running out--"

"Run, run," Sam cut her off, shaking his head as he tried to get a grip on the situation, "What are you talking about?"

"I was asking him out," she said crossly, "And then he glanced outside the window, and then he got up and told me not to go home alone."

"What?!" Sam asked, a breath before he looked at her more closely. Skinny. _Fricking_. Blond...

"He went running out," she said with a shrug, "It don't matter. I can get anyone else in here--"

"Don't go home alone," Sam told her, reaching in his pocket for two twenties and slapping it on the bar as payment for dinner.

"What?" she asked, looking at him blankly.

"Whatever he told you," Sam said, jogging for their booth, and grabbing both his and Dean's duffel bags. He slung them over his shoulders as he grabbed his phone and tried Dean's number again.

_The number you dialed is out of service or out of reach_...

It went to Dean's voicemail.

Like a call usually would when someone is underground...?

"God," Sam muttered under his breath and went running out the bar, looking left and right, not even knowing where to start.

He ran for the street their booth window faced. He jogged around, calling for his brother. The only sounds of the night was his screaming "Dean!", the distant roar of a bar crowd appreciating another touchdown, and his boots against the ground as they alternated from dull thumping on concrete to sharper clangs on metal grates.

He stopped cold in realization.

He looked down at the grates beneath his feet, and then at the grates a few feet away, and at the grates a few feet away from that, and the grates a few feet away from that, a long, eternal line of concrete sidewalk sporadically broken by metal grates leading to the underworld below.

He dialed Dancy's number.

"Hurry up, damn it!" he snapped, without preamble.

" " "

Dean coughed himself awake, and blinked bleary eyes in the thick, oppressive dark, broken only by the moonlight streaming from an open rectangle on the roof, a good, high floor far above his head.

Dean struggled to focus, but could only groan and watch, as the moon was shut out by the closing of metal grates, its full light now reduced to streaks streaming from the gaps between the steel grills.

"Sam!" he rasped, knowing he was in trouble, as he felt around in the dark for the phone that had just been in his hand. His fingers were clumsy, and the ground was hard and slick. Wherever that damn phone went, it was out of his miserable reach.

His head throbbed from the fall. He suspected he throbbed everywhere too, but the head was the one that processed everything, and at the moment, it didn't want to think of anything but itself.

He grunted, and made an effort to turn, even just a little, just so he could get his hands on the gun pressing painfully against his back. But his body was uncooperative. His vision was going on and off, focused and then not. He didn't even know he was missing time until he saw a dark figure begin to descend a built-in steel ladder on the wall near the grated hole Dean had just fallen from one moment, and then the next the figure was midway through it, his boots making click-clack sounds on the metal ladder.

Dean redoubled his efforts to grab his gun.

He lost more time.

The next thing he knew, the click-clacking sound from the boots against the metal ladder was gone, to be replaced by boots making quiet splashes on the ground near Dean's head.

The dark figure was just a shadow against the light, as it crouched before Dean's trembling, struggling body.

Dean lashed out blindly, never one to be messed with, even hurt and disoriented. The man took the hit and laughed, and backhanded Dean across the face, making him black out again.

He lost more time.

The next thing he knew, there was a piece of chemical-laden cloth pressed against his face, and there was a whisper on his ear, uncomfortably warm when everything in this damn hole was beginning to feel freezing cold.

"How did you know to look at me?" the man asked, his voice calm and even, "How did you know I was watching her...?"

Dean squirmed and struggled, and then held his breath and pretended to have been subdued by the drugged cloth. But the man was a fucking professional. Dean held his breath as long as he could. The man laughed again, and slammed an authoritative fist against Dean's chest, forcing him to take a breath.

Dean cried out in pain and annoyance, and it forced the tainted air into his starved lungs. He heaved a breath, tried to hold it and keep himself from breathing more of the crap. He struggled, kicked, struck. But he was injured, and dizzy, and there was just no way... no way out at all...

He didn't think the world could get any darker, but he was wrong.

To be continued...


	6. Escape

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**Underworld**

Summary:The Winchesters stumble into the work of a serial killer running loose in New York, as if Dean's post-traumatic stress syndrome, the police, and 2 Subway ghosts weren't enough to deal with. Set between 4.08 and 4.09.

**Hi gang!**

Okay, here's another installment of _Underworld_. Thank you so, so, so much for the reviews! I don't get a lot, so every single one counts and it really, really fuels me. I am humbled, and also very healthily pressured haha! :) I will be very very busy in the weeks to come, so I'm desperately trying to finish this story and post everything before Christmas so that you don't have to wait for very long (I hate waiting, myself haha). Expect the final installment of _Underworld_ in the next couple of days :) Leave me a review if you can, but I am also thankful for the alerts and for you taking the time to read my work. I hope my rush doesn't allow the quality to suffer. I hope you enjoy Chapter 5: Esacape.

C&C's always welcome. 'Til the next post!

" " "

**Underworld**

" " "

_**5: Escape**_

" " "

New York, New York

2008

" " "

The well-used, dusty sedan stopped in front of the bar, trailed by two NYPD squad cars. Sam practically yanked Dancy out, tearing the driver's side door open.

"What the hell--!"

"No time," Sam breathed, shoving one of the bags in the backseat for safekeeping, along with Dean's coat. While anxiously waiting for Dancy and his crew to arrive, he had searched through his and Dean's bags for what they might need underground, and put them in one bag that he could bring along without sacrificing speed and flexibility.

"What's going on?" Dancy demanded.

_Bullet points_, Sam told himself, taking a deep, calming breath. If he wanted their help to save Dean, he had to calm down and give a decent briefing. A few seconds to do this now would save more time later.

"We thought we were getting close," Sam said, "I guess we were right. He grabbed... he grabbed Dean."

"What do you mean he grabbed Dean?" Dancy demanded, raising up his radio, as if about to call something in.

"He likes skinny young blonds, right?" Sam continued, "Hey, you have a shovel or some kind of an ax somewhere in your car?"

"What?!" Dancy exclaimed, "Yes, a small shovel in the trunk, for the damn snow. Who the fuck brings an ax -- what the hell are you talking about? Tyler's not a skinny blond chick-"

"Open the trunk," Sam ordered, as he came around the car and led the way to the trunk. Dancy followed, not-quite sure of any other alternative. He unlocked the trunk, and drew out one of those foldable emergency shovels. Sam grabbed it from him and began walking.

"He likes skinny young blond girls," Sam continued, "There was a waitress in the bar, and Dean noticed there was a guy watching her. I think he went outside to talk to the guy, or at least, see what was what, and now they're both just gone."

"Perry, maybe they just went to the john or something--"

"No," Sam insisted, "I looked. I fricking _looked_ at that bar inside out while you were on your way here. I looked around it, I called his cell over and over. A guy doesn't just up and vanish--"

"Exactly!" Dancy exclaimed, grabbing Sam by the arm and stopping him in his tracks, "Listen, maybe he spotted a girl, or went inside a shop, or--"

"If you give me the spiel about how long it takes for a guy to be officially missing," Sam said, eyes darkening threateningly, "So help me god--"

"No threats," Dancy told him, equally dangerously, "You want my help, you make this make sense."

"I know him," Sam said, "And if you knew him, you would know beyond any shadow of a doubt that the only reason he is not here in a situation like this is if someone _took_ him from here. A guy doesn't just vanish, right? Especially in the middle of just finding a hot tip to tell the cops in the investigation of a damned serial killer. Now I'm going down there 'cos I think this fucker brought him to where he put the bodies of those women. I was going to bring you there anyway, but I need you to know that the situation's changed, and that we gotta go in faster, and harder. So are you still going with me or not?"

"What's the shovel for?" Dancy asked, warily.

"We may have to break down a wall," Sam said quickly, beginning to walk again, "And you can come along and bring your boys, I don't care. If this all comes to nothing, then fine, pick me up and charge me for vandalism or destroying public property or whatever, I don't care. The situation's changed, I said, and especially for me. I don't care if I'm messing around with your crime scene anymore. I don't even care if I'm breaking a foundation that will bring the entire system crumbling. All I know is, if I have to break a wall open because Dean's behind it, I will. Are you coming or not?"

Dancy frowned, and then shook his head in dismay. But he waved the uniformed policemen over, and followed Sam as he walked in the subway entrance that he was most familiar with.

"But I am taking you in if this is all just for shit."

Sam just glanced at him, said nothing. Like he said, he really didn't give a crap.

" " "

The Subway System

" " "

Dean gasped awake again, and couldn't catch his breath when he realized that the world from beneath his eyelids looked as dark and dank as the world from when he opened his eyes.

He coughed dizzily, wanting to put his hands over his mouth, _keep from waking Sam_, you know, before he realized that his hands were tied behind his back.

_What the--_? he wondered, breath coming in even harder now, disturbed by his confusion, at the thought of being held captive, and at the paralyzing fear that he was not very sure about what happened, what was happening, what was _real_...

He shook his head, and nearly gagged at the nausea caused by the movement. The feeling was familiar. _Concussion_, he guessed; even the shaken brain can recognize its nemesis. He laid still, trying to calm his breathing, trying to get a better grasp of the situation.

_Baby steps_, he decided.

One, he was alive, and that was always a good thing to begin with. He was lying on his side, hands tied behind his back, legs tied at knees, and then ankles. _Not_ as good, certainly. He was on freezing cold ground beneath a shallow layer of suspiciously slimy water. He was sore everywhere that he could catalog. The air was flat, still, dead and biting cold. His body was shaking with reaction to pain and the freezing air. He had on nothing but his undershirt and button-down over his jeans, having left his jacket at... his jacket at...

_The bar_!

The bar, he had left his coat at the bar, where the skinny blond waitress was asking him out, the skinny blond waitress who was being _watched_--

His body jerked, as if it remembered the feeling of falling again. He remembered the spindly fingers gripping the metal grills beneath his feet, pulling down at them, taking the ground from under him and him falling, _falling, falling_ into the dark...

Into the dark, and to the smells... to the smells and to the fruitless screaming, and the torture and the pain-- he struggled against his bonds. He grunted, and made more nauseating, frustrated, movements that were just as futile. His vision darkened, because his breath was running short again. His heart thundered in his ears, thundered, and overwhelmed everything.

He lost some time.

He gasped awake again.

He couldn't catch his breath when he realized that the world from beneath his eyelids looked as dark and dank as the world from when he opened his eyes.

_Wait a minute_, he thought, feeling deeply and profoundly confused.

He coughed dizzily, wanting to put his hands over his mouth, _keep from waking Sam_, you know, before he realized that his hands were tied behind his back.

_What the--_? he wondered, breath coming in even harder now, disturbed by his confusion, at the thought of being held captive, and at the paralyzing fear that he was not very sure about what happened, what was happening, what was _real_...

_Wait a minute_, he thought again, _I think I've been down this road before_.

He shook his head, and nearly gagged at the nausea caused by the movement. The feeling was familiar. _Concussion_, he guessed. Even the shaken brain can recognize its nemesi--

_Fuck!_

_I'm underfrickingground with a psycho_, he suddenly remembered, and the feeling of that realization can only be approximated by a train slamming into the body. The dark, the blood, the screams, the _smell_... He struggled against his bonds again, and cried out in frustration.

"Your dreams are not very pleasant."

His eyes snapped open and struggled to focus, fighting against his injury, against the drug still-swimming in his system, against the oppressive dark and his even blacker memories.

The voice was so alien in its contemplative calm, belying the monstrosity that Dean now knew owned it. The man was tall and lean, his figure almost Wendigo-like in the hidden power of its lithe strength. Everything about him was long and morose-looking – dark hair, sunken eyes, beak-nose, sharp chin - and Dean thought fleetingly that he looked like a mortician. Or worse, a vampire-mortician or something. He decided he'd call him that, until he knew more.

"I've never brought a boy down here before," 'the mortician' said, smiling, looking sanguine, teeth neat white rows against pale skin, "Maybe you are what I need after all, to rid me of my vices."

"I d-don't," Dean rasped through clenched, chattering teeth, "P-play f-for that t-team."

The man just shrugged, and crouched before Dean's head. "I must admit the idea appeals to me not at all either, I was just trying to be clever. But that aside, you are quite lucky. I used to take rejection much, much harder."

'The mortician' motioned casually for the wall behind him, and Dean blinked his blurry vision into better focus. On the wall was just a _row_ of bodies arranged in prim sitting positions, heads bonelessly tilted just-so, legs stretched before them, hands folded on their laps, all of them in various stages of decomposition, eyes open and staring, mouths open in the soundless screams of dead 'O's, where they weren't outright eye and mouth holes of skulls.

His body jerked in the sheer, instinctive reaction of surprise and disgust. His mind jerked too, back to that one place that was worse than here. His eyes dulled, lost focus, went away, back to that place, back to that place, that one place that was worse than here.

The smells were overwhelming. Oily, and it stuck to his clothes, stuck to his skin. He smelled like the dead. And the dead smelled like him--

"You're going away again," the man said, sing-song.

Dean reeled at the sensation of the bony hands against his cheek, wrenching him back to the present, which looked a lot like the past.

_Going away_? Dean thought, _Go where? Go where? There was no escape..._

His heart stopped for an infinite moment.

_No escape_?

But..._He thought he had escaped. If not from hell, then at least from their torment. And then the day ended, and he woke up whole, and back on the rack. He cried then, cried like it would break him in half..._

"No!" he cried out, making the man before him jump.

"No!" he cried out again, bucking, thinking, thinking he was going to wake up on the rack again, wasn't he? That he hadn't been sprung from hell by an angel (_I mean that's just unheard of_!), that he was still in hell, and that _Sam _was still alone, and fucking up his life over in the land of the living.

_I'm still in hell_, he thought despairingly, _I never got out_.

_I never got out!_

He cried out again, in anguish now, because the damn demons were fucking with his head again, had fucked with him bad, making him believe he had been saved, and then yanking him back, back to dark and torture and bodies around, and blood and pain and the smell of death and decay.

_I'm still in hell_, he thought, _I never got out_.

_I never got out..._

He bucked against his bonds violently, and then a stabbing pain went through his head, making him gasp, and think, and then re-think his situation.

_No_, he thought, forcing himself to calm down. _It's just the concussion, drama queen. The concussion and the fugliness of this place is messing with your head_.

He caught his breath, fighting to calm. He'd been pulled out of hell. He'd been pulled out of hell. The place he was in was _hellish_, but it was not the same, it wasn't the real deal. This, this he can deal with. He can handle the fucking amateur clown who was messing with him.

"Why are you so tainted?" the man murmured, apparently fascinated.

"Wh-who are you?" Dean demanded, "Wh-wh-why arrre y-you d-d-d-doing thiss?"

"I am no one," 'the mortician' replied, again with that small, calm smile, "Maybe it was the problem to begin with."

"S-s-so somme sk-skinny b-blond sn-snubbed you," Dean growled, "G-g-get ov-over 't. World's gottt big-bigger p-p-problems than your in-inab-ability to get-t laid. 'Sides... y-y-you got-t probs with a g-g-girl, you b-b-buy a p-p-prostitute, or, or p-p-pay-per-view, or, or call 'n 800 n-numb-number. Kidnap-murder's at-t bot-tom of t'list."

"I do not find these things amusing," the mortician said, frowning. He bit his lip in thought, and then nodded to himself in some kind of a decision. He rose to his feet gracefully, and then vanished from Dean's line of sight. Dean heard some clamor, like the man was trying to look for something.

Dean craned his neck up at the fricking vampire-mortician when he came back.

Knives always pick up light from somewhere, didn't they? Somehow, knives always picked up light from somewhere. Here in the dull dark, that silver in the man's hands was disconcertingly clean and gleaming.

Dean blinked at that silver gleam, and then at the man's calm smile.

_I've been through this before_.

Dean couldn't breathe, because he wasn't sure where he was again.

_But I thought I've left all this behind..._

The man crouched before him, and the hungry eyes devoured his body, as if eagerly thinking about where to start.

_I'm not here_, Dean thought desperately, squirming, _I was saved!_

The knife lowered against his skin, just skimming it.

_I've left all this behind_!

He cried out, unthinking, struggling. The knife bit deeper against his cheek, down the length of his jaw, drawing blood.

"If you stay still," breath against his ear, "It will not go so deep."

There was a part of him that knew he's suffered worse hurts, that this wasn't supposed to rile him up. But his mind was lost, lost to the jumble of his head injury, lost to the traumatic memories of his past, lost in the peril of the present... just... _lost_.

He bucked, and cried out.

"G-get away f-from m-me!"

_But I was saved,_ his mind screamed, _I've left all this behind!_

" " "

Sam picked up calm from a hidden reservoir somewhere inside him. This was what he had feared, right? Losing Dean, _again_. But if he had lost his mind in his worry, he'd have torn out the first subway grate he could find, and would have just ran around down there screaming his brother's name.

But he was a hunter yet, and a damned good one. He took the walk headed toward the subway entrance that he knew, instead of just picking one up at random and tearing it down. This was the killer's lair, and if he went down blind and lost, he'd never win, would never find Dean. He had to be able to find the tunnel where that dead girl came from. He couldn't risk getting lost down there, because getting lost meant also losing Dean.

He glanced at his watch. Dean's been gone for a little over an hour. Underground, with a psycho-killer. His stomach felt hollow, and the thought made him nauseous.

He led the way forward, wide steps unhesitating, walking parallel to the tracks, and trailed by Detective Dancy and three uniformed policemen. They went into the long tunnel the murdered girl came out of, and then into the room that split into six hallways, and then finally, standing before the space on the wall that he had marked with his trusty can of paint days ago, the first time he and Dean had seen the ghost girl step out of the wall.

"You're really gonna just tear into the damn tunnel," Dancy said, skeptically.

"I told you the situation's changed for me," Sam said gruffly, unfolding the emergency shovel he had borrowed from the detective.

"This wall is crazy thick though, you know that, right?" Dancy said, as Sam braced himself to slam the sharp end of the shovel against the concrete, "It's meant to withstand flooding water at ridiculous forces, and derailed trains, and the fucking test of time--"

Sam ignored him, and struck at the concrete with all his might.

The sharp sound reverberated in the tunnel.

The wall was barely dented.

Sam cursed, and tried again.

"Maybe he's not there," Dancy said.

"He is, I know it," Sam grunted, striking again. A piece chipped off, and it was so negligible that it was almost more dissatisfying than if it hadn't happened at all.

"If I'm wrong arrest me," Sam said, striking again, and again, "If I'm wrong sue me for damages to the state. I don't care. Just... just..." The futility of his actions, and the growing ache in his arm was beginning to get to him.

"Just help me," he said shakily, fearing for a blinding moment that he was going to sob, right then and there. He steeled his breath, set his jaws, and then struck again.

Dancy frowned at him, but looked at the other police officers with them. "You think you can find your way back here if you go out there?"

"Sure thing, lieutenant," one of them said.

"You two," he directed, "Get someone from the fricking MTA on this and ask them what's behind this wall and how else to get there. You," he pointed to someone else, "Get on the radio and get the FDNY in here. Wait for them up top, and then drag their asses down here. Tell them to bring drills, hammers and fucking axes. The drilled holes can weaken the structure, and then maybe Superman here can bash around and get further. Tell them to bring the paramedics too."

The uniformed cops scurried away, and Sam looked at Dancy with watery eyes, gratefulness practically bleeding out of him. Dancy gave him a short nod, and then shook his head in amazement that he was buying into all this as he rolled up his sleeves.

"If you're just messing with us," Dancy said, "Now's the time to say so, before this gets any bigger. 'Cos if you're wrong, city's gonna sue you for everything you own, kid."

"I can't care," Sam said, bracing himself to strike again, "Not 'til I get him back."

" " "

There was a part of Dean that knew precisely where he was, but there was another part, the part that was growing larger and larger and stronger and stronger, that was overwhelming everything else. It was overwhelming his hunter's instincts, overwhelming logic, overwhelming strategy. It was also slowly overtaking his desire to fight back.

The man had stopped skimming the knife against his skin, but Dean's memories had already been triggered, going on crazy overdrive. His body shook harder, and there was just no decent breath to be had, none at all, _none at all_.

The man stood back, and regarded him thoughtfully.

"Not the first time around the block, I see," he murmured, raising his knife again, and touching it against Dean's throat, "Who are you?"

There was no air down there. There was no air. Blackness started to creep on the corners of his vision, as if the underworld was making its way into his skin, just crawling in, making itself at home, making itself a part of him, making him an extension of itself, eating him alive, taking over--

The world exploded, and he clenched his eyes shut, feeling the hit across the face. _Alastair was getting pissed off again_.

"How did you know I was watching her?" the man demanded as he struck Dean on the face, "Are you a cop?"

"I'll..." Dean gasped at Alastair, "I'll n-never d-d-o it-t. You can't... cant m-make m-me. N-nothing, n-nothing can-can m-make m-me..."

The world exploded again, "Who are you?!"

"You can't... can't m-make m-me..." Dean murmured, as his eyes drifted shut.

The man pressed gripped Dean's face with one hand, shaking him, willing him to stay awake, willing him to be _here_, needing his answers.

"Open those damn eyes or I tear them out," he said, darkly, "Who are you, and how did you know to look for me?"

"Can't... make... make me...d-do that..."

The spindly hands moved from clutching his face to down his neck, tightening slowly.

"You're really fucking crazy," the killer told Dean, as the captive took a strangled breath past the grip on his neck. The killer's own breath hitched, as he struggled for some control. He bit his lip, closed his eyes to calm himself, and then released Dean, who choked and coughed as he recovered.

"You're gonna tell me who you are," the man said, determinedly, beginning to toss off his jackets angrily, and looking around the bunker in earnest, for something more coercive than a silver knife. He pulled Dean from the floor, slammed him to lean against the wall once, and then once more when he started lilting, sliding back down to the floor. He didn't bother a third time when Dean sank again.

His eyes slipped close, and then opened. He thought he may have lost some time again, because he was himself again, he was _here and now_ again. The difference between Dean-in-Hell and Dean-Here-Now was that the latter found macabre humor in a psycho killer calling him crazy. The psycho-killer called Dean Winchester _fucking crazy_.

_Sick bastard had some fricking nerve!_

The monster had his back to Dean, hunched over his tools.

"You're going to tell me," the man said, sounding neurotic and agitated, voice low and intense as he hunted for something from his things, "You're going to tell me who you are, and what you know about me, and who else knows. You're going to tell me. Tell me everything.

"I will kill you, you know," the man said, as he slipped in metal rings against his knuckles, deciding if this was going to be the night's torture of choice. He slipped them off, rooting around again, "It's just a question of how quickly, and how mercifully. That doesn't sound like a great deal, but I promise you I can be very... unmerciful... when I am disappointed--"

He jumped at the sound of banging, reverberating around the tunnel.

Now Dean couldn't tell left from right, right then, his head was swimming. He suspected that even if he had use of all his faculties, the reverberating sound still would have seemed as if it was coming from _everywhere_. But this was the monster's lair, wasn't it? His fucking cave. His _home_. He'd know strange sounds that didn't belong, and where they were coming from. The man shoved Dean aside with casual force, like he was a sack of potatoes. The man pressed his ear against the wall, and flinched and backed off when the dull sound came again.

He turned to Dean angrily, grabbing him by the shirt.

"Who else knows?" he demanded, "Is that them? Huh? Is that them?!"

_Banging on a wall? Yeah, that would probably be him (not them)_, Dean thought. _That would be Sam, all right. Sounds just like him. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't even be surprised if he was using that very bull-head of his, slamming it against the wall to tear it down..._

The man pushed Dean against the wall, and his head bounced against the concrete painfully, speaking of hard heads.

"Speak!" the man hollered at Dean's face, eyes turning wide and enraged.

Dean stared at him, felt his mouth turning upwards in a more familiar grin, "Y-y-you're m-m-messsssin withhhh t-the wr-rong g-g-g-guy."

_That threat sounded better in my head_, he thought, but, _Whatever_.

The man cried out in sheer frustration, and just _threw_ Dean to the other wall, the wall lined by the dead women. Dean's eyes widened in surprise as he descended on them. His body spasmed, trying to get away, but there was no having that; he was tied up, and weak besides. He slammed on them in a rattle of bones, the swish of empty clothes, the disconcerting squish of flesh that was _not quite_ flesh anymore. And the smell... _God_, the smell. The _stench_. It hit him full force, a force stronger than the physical pain of falling, cutting past the body, stabbing straight through to the soul, or at least, whatever was left of it. He gagged, and then choked because he couldn't turn, couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

_I've been here before_.

And so, off to Hell he went away again.

_I've never left_.

Off to Hell, he went away again...

_I can never leave._

Dean screamed to drown out their screams. He cried to drown out their cries. No one who mattered could hear him.

" " "

Sam froze dead, eyes shooting up to Dancy's clouded ones.

"Did you hear--" Dancy said.

"Dean!" Sam yelled against the wall, punching at it determinedly with a fist, "I'm coming, all right? I'm coming!"

He slammed the shovel against the dented wall with renewed vigor once, and then again, and then again. When the blows started to loose force, Dancy pushed him aside, and took over. They took turns giving everything they had, and then recovering their strengths.

"I'm coming, Dean!" Sam yelled again, massaging strength and circulation on his arms, "Just hang in there!"

The hoarse screams were coming in dull from the other side of the wall, and Dancy could no longer afford the comfortable illusion that he was being taken for a ride. But a determined, veteran cop on the tail of a serial killer made for a _madman_. He struck and struck against the wall, raising the shovel high over his head, and just slamming it against the concrete, again and again and again, right 'til he had gone so deep that his final strike created no longer a dent in the unforgiving concrete, but a _hole_.

Sam pushed him away, eager to peer inside. He closed one eye and leaned to take a peek, but jumped back when the specter of the ghost blond went careening out, going through him in a chilling rush. He gasped, and realized that she had just saved him from a very brutal fate; the hole he had peered through was suddenly _stabbed_ through by a silver knife that would have taken his eye out.

"Get away!" someone from inside warned.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Dancy cried, eyes wide as he stared at the knife, and then the ghost, who who was looking at Sam with determination in her eyes. And then she raised her hand, to point at a section of the wall.

"Dancy," Sam said, breathlessly, "Dancy, hit where she's pointing."

"What?" Dancy asked, voice small, confused, playing _out of his league_.

"Dancy," Sam said again, quietly, willing him to be calm, "I think she's telling us where the wall is weak. The wall broke years ago too, she used it to escape, and the hole was just covered up by the killer. She is telling us where the wall is weak."

Dancy's arm was trembling as he raised it up, according to Sam's order and apparently, according to some damn ghost's _suggestion_. But he set his jaws determinedly, and just struck at the wall with all his might.

" " "

The ghost vanished in a flash of light and with what felt like an exhausted but elated sigh, as the concrete crumbled enough to clear a hole about the size of a small flatscreen TV. This time, Sam and Dancy peered into the bunker more cautiously.

"Who the hell are you people?" an agitated man asked thinly from within. Sam tore his eyes away from surveying the area to the sight of the killer hoisting up his shaking, crying, gasping brother in a manic vise, glimmering silver knife pressed against his throat. Dean was twitching enough such that light nicks were already making cuts on his neck and chin.

"Let him go," Sam said, darkly, "It's over now."

"Put down your weapon," Dancy said, gun raised and pointed, "NYPD."

"_You_ put down your weapon," the man said shakily, "_You_ put it down."

"There's nowhere to go," Dancy said, "So just calm down, release the hostage, and this can all go down easy."

"It's never easy," the man insisted, "And down here, I have _everywhere _to go. I'll vanish. You'll never find me."

"It's not about finding you, shithead," Dancy said, "It's about two really pissed-off men running after you and catching up. So if I were you, I'd think on this hard, 'cos I can promise you, we _are_ gonna catch up. And when I get you... let's just say my trigger finger's all itchy here, buddy. I got a ton of reasons to wanna kill you but if you hurt him, or if you run, that's just one more reason too many, and it's an itch I'm _gonna_ scratch."

Sam held his breath, watching his brother's face. Unfortunately, this hadn't been their first stand-off, and they could always signal to each other in_ some _way. Tonight, though... _God_...Dean was just _out_ for the count. His eyes were open but glassy and roving around madly, seeing things that only he could.

The nicks on his neck and chin were dribbling down blood, soaking his stained shirt. His face was bruised and cut, and he was shivering violently, all but rattling out of his skin. There was no way, no way at all that Sam could count on any action from his older brother tonight.

The man looked at Dancy, and then at Sam.

And then he glanced down at his oblivious captive, stuck in his personal hell. The killer actually smiled, and Sam was struck by a sudden realization. There was one way to keep from being chased. If that knife went into Dean's neck, Sam and Dancy would scramble to put their hands in that cut to stop the bleeding. Sam wouldn't give a shit about running after the lunatic if his brother was dying, and it would at the very least, distract Dancy.

_No_, Sam thought, imagining how it would all go down, as if it was a vision in his head. The gleaming knife _into_ his brother's neck. The killer kicking Dean away from him, blocking the hole, keeping Dancy and Sam from scrambling after him. Sam and Dancy pushing off Dean's dead weight and crawling inside. Dancy running after the killer either futilely or possibly fatally into the deeper dark, and Sam, Sam on his knees, pressing a hand against Dean's neck, as if it was still possible to save him--

_No!_

He raised his hand up before he could think twice about it.

There was a force inside him, wasn't there? A power borne of evil, just _consuming _him... so easy to tap, so damn easy, especially when the situation was so damn hard.

The killer cried out when the concussive blast of pure, angry pressure from Sam's dark gift threw him away from Dean, and pinned him against the wall. The man struggled, and cried out all the more. Dean crumpled to the ground, a discarded pile of twitching limbs.

Dancy was still trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Sam, profoundly out-of-practice, had the beginnings of a massive headache.

"Dancy," he grunted, as he concentrated on keeping the killer pinned against the wall with his mind, "Go. I can't... I can't hold him long."

"_You're_ holding him?!" Dancy snapped, looking from Sam to the hole, Sam to the hole, "Yeah, right!"

"Go!" Sam insisted, making the detective scramble and crawl into the bunker. Dancy was far out of his league, ghosts giving hints and fricking psychic powers in the bunker of a serial killer? Whoever heard of that? But once inside the bunker, he let training and experience take over from there. _What else _could_ he do_? He strolled straight for the killer to secure him as a prisoner. He grabbed at the man by the collar, but some invisible force was holding him against the wall.

"He's stuck!" Dancy complained.

Sam released his hold, and crawled into the bunker in a mad rush, as Dancy subdued the struggling serial killer. Sam went on his knees beside Dean, turning him over to lie on his back. His older brother was twitching like a dying fish, making jerky, uncoordinated and almost inhuman movements, as inhuman as the low, anguished sounds his ravaged throat was making.

"Dean," Sam coaxed, lowering his head near Dean's face, willing to be looked at, trying to give him a reassuring smile, "Hey, man. You're safe, all right? I got you. I'm here now."

But it was _Dean_ who wasn't there. He was lost to the world, and Sam had a feeling he'd gone and left, gone and left for hell.

_Not much of a stretch_, Sam recalled painfully, _For this place to remind Dean of the Pit_...

He glanced around, at the cold and the dark and the sheer and utter horror of the bodies piled on one side of the bunker. He shuddered himself, and closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. This was a nightmare. He couldn't begin to imagine what the reminders could have done to Dean.

"Is he all right?" Dancy asked. He had the killer pressed to the ground, knee against the small of his back. He cuffed the killer, and sarcastically informed him of his rights, and then felt in his back pockets for a wallet.

"Of course he is," Sam lied softly, just in case Dean was listening. He wasn't, and it was scaring the living daylights out of Sam, "Right, bro? You're all right?"

Dean didn't reply. He shook, and twisted his head left and right, moaning unintelligibly.

Sam slipped out of his coat, and laid it neatly on the ground. He grabbed his trusty pocket knife, and began to undo the ropes at Dean's ankles first, and then his knees, and then his cold, violently stiff his hands. Sam engulfed them in his warm ones, before touching Dean's face.

"Hey, Dean," he called again, voice beginning to strain with crippling worry now, "Hey, man, look at me. _Look_ at me."

"S-s-" Dean stuttered, blinking, as he gasped, and settled world-weary, glazed eyes on his brother's face.

Sam began to smile, expecting his name to be mentioned in that stupidly, inexplicably endearing way of Dean's.

_Sammy_.

"S-s-stop," Dean stuttered instead, eyes turning from weary to outright, naked anguish, "S-s-stop use-use-using his-s f-f-face..."

Sam took a shaky breath because the disappointment was jarring, and the realization that his visage had been used in Dean's torture was a painful revelation.

"I'll never," Dean gasped, "No... n-no! N-n-never d-d-do itt. You can't... can't make... m-me..."

Sam couldn't understand what Dean was saying, or to whom. Then again he never could understand the words that Dean said when he talked or cried out in his sleep, common, almost nightly occurrences since he got back from Hell.

"Dean," Sam said, gently, "No one's making you do anything, okay? Not anymore. I got you, now. You're safe. I got you. You're safe."

"Stop," Dean said again, eyes leaking tears, "P-p-please. S-st-stop use-using his f-face."

"It's me," Sam insisted, "I promise. It's me."

He lifted Dean up by the shoulders with a grunt, and let Dean fall against his chest. He then picked up his coat from the floor, and draped it over his older brother's shoulders, rubbing at his back and arms, infusing warmth.

Dean jerked against him, moaning "No, no..."

"It's okay, it's okay," Sam whispered, but Dean kept struggling against his hold, and his mind began to white out in panic, as he wondered how long this spell would last, or if it would ever end at all. He just got Dean back, for crying out loud, what a damn joke. Did he just lose him again?

The thought was robbing all sense from Sam. He stopped rubbing warmth back into his brother, and settled for a tight, unyielding embrace instead. Dean fought against him, bucking, weak fists punching against his chest as he insisted, "_No_." Sam's heart was beating harder than those fists, rendered useless by weakness and hurt.

"Dean please," Sam found himself begging, voice shaking now, and he ridiculously felt like he was on the verge of crying, "You're safe. I'm here."

"N-n-never," Dean growled, "N-n-never safe,_ ag-again_. I n-n-n-never got-got out. N-n-no esc-escape."

_"_You're _safe,_" Sam insisted, "Castiel, the angel, he pulled you out, okay? You're mind's just messed up because of this damn place, and I think you hit your head, okay? It's just this place, and you hit your head. But I got you, okay? I'm _here_. You just have to trust me. I got you. Please, Dean. _Please..._"

_Please what_? He mocked himself, _Please?_ What kind of a lame comforter did he make? He was supposed to be the one lending strength here, right? He was supposed to be the one...

The struggles ceased. Sam wondered if Dean had passed out. He held his breath for a long moment, as Dean shook in his arms.

"Dean?" he called, quietly, pulling Dean away from him, trying to look at his face. "Dean?"

His older brother's gaze was lowered, and it took him an infinite moment to raise haunted eyes to meet Sam's. Dean's eyes were very, very deeply weary. Scarred, and tired. His pupils were blown, just _shot_ with his concussion, but lost too, lost to his fears and anxieties, and this... this pervasive, screaming _shame_. These made for very deep wounds in his cloudy gaze, and then there was something else. A flickering..._anger_.

"Is thiss..." Dean struggled, his look mildly accusatory, "Is this... wh-what y-y-you want-wanted t-to see, Sammy?"

It felt like a stab in the heart. Sam knew it was probably just the concussion talking. Dean was traumatized, and physically hurt to begin with. He couldn't have meant that, couldn't believe that Sam would want to see this. This wasn't what Sam had asked for, in wanting to understand what his brother had gone through in hell. He wanted to help. This isn't what he wanted...

But none of this made the accusation any easier to bear.

"I'll never ask again, Dean," Sam promised, quietly, settling down on the ground and shifting, such that he could sit against the stinking walls and Dean could slump, leaning against his chest. He kept his warming arms around the coat that cocooned his brother.

"Not 'til you're ready," Sam promised, "Not 'til you want me to--"

"If my boys didn't get lost," Dancy suddenly said, and Sam had all but forgotten him, "The rest of the cavalry should be here any minute."

"Good," Sam murmured, closing his eyes exhaustedly, as he held his brother in his arms. Dean just shook, and let him.

"S-Sam?" Dean called, and Sam had never heard or felt his brother seem so small.

"Yup?"

"I think-k," Dean struggled, "I c-c-caught loll-llip-pop diseasse."

Sam lowered his face into his brother's hair, wanting to kill Dean and hug him at the same time. He chuckled wearily, but he closed his eyes and cried too.

" " "

Dean passed out minutes later, and was thankfully out cold when the paramedics arrived to take him away. Sam rode with him to a nearby hospital, oblivious to the heady buzz growing around him and his brother. The case was _gigantic_, to say the least, and there were things he was going to have to figure out. But as always, Dean had to come first.

Sam stood in his brooding corner of the emergency room, as he was briefed by the doctor attending to Dean. He had a tendency to hate the doctors taking care of Dean, because they just looked so damn grave all the time. Granted, it was probably more because the only times he'd ever had to bring Dean to the hospital was when he was in a very bad state, but still.

_So sue me_, Sam thought, miserably.

Sam was unsurprised by the diagnosis; concussion, mild hypothermia, cuts and contusions... Dean's had infinitely worse. As a matter of fact, a part of him wanted to kick himself for even allowing them to be brought to the hospital. But he was shaken to the core, so shaken that when Dean went limp in his arms, and there were gentle-speaking people surrounding them who seemed like they knew what they were doing better than he did and wanted to help, he just let them. His mind whited out. He'd never seen his brother so openly hurt before, and it was like he became naked and disarmed also. He blanked out, and he let them help.

It was Dean's less obvious, more serious, unseen hurts that terrified him. The doctor was giving Sam the quick-and-dirty briefing of psych consults that were to be expected in the next few days, especially if his brother was going to be useful in prosecuting the man who did this to him. Sam winced when the doctor started to relay the results of them breaking out a rape kit, which they had to do given the serial killer's history. It was a possibility Sam had never even thought of, and he had to reach deep for strength as he listened, and fought back the panic as he thought of all the time he had to leave Dean alone down there. The relief of the negative result was dizzying.

"He'll be out cold for about twenty-four hours," the doctor warned Sam, as he led the way to Dean's curtained corner of the emergency room.

"He will wake up very disoriented," the doctor went on, "He'll be in pain, and will likely be nauseous and ill. We might have to bring him back under, but that is to be expected too. We have no reason to expect he won't make a full recovery."

Sam just nodded numbly, as he went inside Dean's corner. As always, the first thing he noticed was that his brother looked like a stranger on the bed. He looked so different when he was completely knocked out, and especially now when his face was heavily cut and bruised. His breathing was eased by an oxygen mask, and there were a couple of IV's on his arms. Other than that, he was free of any serious medical implements, which was another relief.

Sam exhaled slowly, and turned around when Detective Dancy strode toward Sam with two uniformed men.

"Perry," Dancy said quietly, "These are guys from the crime lab. There are some things they need to do."

Sam looked up at him wearily. No, he wasn't being given a choice here. Dancy wasn't asking for permission, he was giving a courtesy. This was procedure he couldn't contest or escape, what with Dean so out of commission.

"What do you need?" Sam asked, tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

"We need his clothes," Dancy began, "Need to get some photographs, some DNA samples from him."

"It can't wait?" Sam asked.

"We can't risk losing the samples with time and contamination," Dancy said, "I'm sorry."

_Don't be sorry_, Sam thought, irrationally angry, _He's not fucking dead_.

Sam nodded and opened his palms up to them. He headed toward Dean's pile of clothes, bagged in a table in the corner of the room, as the lab people readied their things. He stood with his back to them as he opened the bag, and discreetly palmed Dean's wallet, amulet, and knife. Dean's gun was elsewhere, the hospital people likely had to turn it over to someone when they were stripping him. From how Dancy was tossing him warning glances, Sam had a feeling he already knew where it was.

He turned around, and handed the bag of clothes to the one of the officers. He was weary but calm, up until he watched in breathless horror, as another officer lifted up Dean's limp hands, and began to take samples from beneath his fingernails. He thought he was going to be sick, when they started taking angled photos of the bruises and cuts on Dean's neck and face. He shut his eyes, as if the flashes were directed at him instead.

"Stop," he gasped, because it was so damn macabre, wasn't it? It felt so damn wrong, like, like they were putting together the pieces of a dead man's story. But this was his _brother_, and his brother was alive, he was fine, he--

"We almost done, boys?" Dancy asked, sensing Sam's anxiety.

"Just about, lieutenant," one of the men said, tossing Sam a reassuring smile, "We'll be out of your hair in a second."

Sam wanted to punch the living daylights out of him, and was at the brink of an explosion by the time they shuffled out. Dancy gave them instructions, the words lost in Sam's peripheral attention, as he walked by his brother's bedside, and placed a palm on Dean's cold, still hand.

Dancy returned to the room, and waited for Sam to acknowledge him.

Sam looked up at him blearily. "We uh..." he hesitated, "We're four years apart, you know. So it took me a long time to figure out he wasn't invincible."

"Brothers," Dancy said, flatly.

"Yes," Sam said, deciding on the truth this time, "_Yes_. He never got sick, he'd take a hit and just get up. He was always in front of me, but he also always had my back. How can somebody do that, be in two places at once? What else was I supposed to think? I reached twelve before I realized he wasn't invincible, he was just really good at pretend."

Sam chuckled at himself, quietly. "He was hurt bad, he couldn't hide it anymore, and still I was the one who got pissed at him, because suddenly everything crumbled, you know? It was like... being told there's no Santa Clause or something. I got over that, eventually. But then it took me a decade later to realize he was human too; he gets scared, he falls in love, he has dreams... I guess I just..."

He shook his head, trying to find the words, "I've seen him sick, I've seen him hurt, I've seen him crying. I've seen him down, and defeated. But I've never... never thought of him as a _victim_ before."

He's never seen Dean be so radically broken, and helpless. Injured, ill, depressed, he has seen, and accepted, and loved. But _victim_ was just so new. Hell had torn into Dean and clung on, like a tumor that was slowly eating him alive.

"How important is Dean going to be when you go after this case?" Sam asked.

"I ran over the basics with the DA," Dancy said, "This one's getting life in prison no matter what anyway. That bunker had his DNA all over it, especially on the dead bodies. They found some of the girls things in his apartment. They even extracted a confession. He called it his manifesto, his fricking life statement. Out of his damn mind. That answer your question?"

"Yeah," Sam said.

"You're thinking of running," Dancy guessed.

Sam looked him straight in the eye, and weighed his answer carefully. "You can stop me if you want. But I can promise you right now... if you involve us, we're the _reasonable doubt_ that can ruin your air-tight case."

"Had a few run-ins with the law?" Dancy scoffed, "I'm sure you can wrangle a good deal for helping take down this freak. I'm sure it's nothing compared to--"

"Oh believe me," Sam said, "It's right up there. You ah... you got Dean's gun, right?"

"Yeah," Dancy admitted, "It looked hot to me and I didn't want any minor issues clouding this case, so I thought I'd give Tyler a break. I told the medicos it was mine, lost in the fucking melee."

"Good," Sam breathed. That was one loose end taken care of. He took a deep breath, and wondered if he trusted his judgment with this cop. He's trusted cops before, and it wasn't like they had any real choice. He wanted that killer rotting behind bars, sure, but he sure as hell didn't want Dean or himself to be joining him, and right now, they were stuck right at the eye of this storm.

"Run the prints," Sam said, mouth dry, "Or take my word on it. My name's Sam Winchester and that's my brother Dean. We're wanted in several states for murder, credit card fraud, vandalism, grave desecration, destruction of private property, theft... name it, and it's on our rap sheet. Incidentally, we're also logged down as dead in police custody. Do we sound like credible witnesses to you? Or good sources of a tip? Involving us is gonna wreck this case, Dancy, you know it. And this guy's gonna walk, especially if people have reasonable doubt that he's the killer, given that the information came from a known felon like me."

Dancy stared at him long, and hard, weighing in the judgment of his experience in reading people.

"I'm so fucked," Dancy said flatly.

"Welcome to our world," Sam sighed, "You've been at this awhile, I know. And with the things you've seen tonight--"

"I was delusional or something," Dancy said flippantly, "The air down there's murder."

"No," Sam shook his head, "We both know what we saw. You can't change the things you know, the things you've seen. There's no blocking it out, no killing it. You just _know_."

He thought about men like David Calling, the addicts in the street, and now he supposed his brother too, destroying themselves in an effort to distort their realities. Sam was a firm believer in the healing capacity of drugs in most instances, but people trying to convince themselves of different 'truths' was just destructive.

"Yeah..." Dancy grimaced, "I... I guess, I mean, I can... I can even remember her clothes, man. And I can remember... pulling on that fucking killer, but he was just _stuck_ to the wall, pinned, you know, until you let go..."

Sam just shook his head and pressed his hands to his eyes. He's almost forgotten _that_. He was so going to be in trouble for that...

"Ever heard of the spook beat?" Sam asked.

"Urban legend," Dancy said, "I was at the academy when I first heard about it, and they kept talking about the spook beat - the NYPD running into these crazy, X-files shit type of gigs, and some cop keeping track of it all."

"You wanna talk to Marina McBain," Sam said, "She's NYPD, another precinct. You might have run into her. We've worked together before. She'll tell you what you need to know, or if you just need someone to talk to about everything you've seen. I know it can't be easy."

"What do you mean you've worked with her before?"

"This is our work," Sam said, heavily, "Crusade. Mission. Whatever. My brother and I hunt down the things no one else would touch. We don't get paid, we don't get thanked, but we do get arrested a lot. You kill a human-like monster and it's murder. You steal a cursed object to keep it from hurting people and it's theft. You burn down a haunted something and you're destroying property. You salt and burn a corpse to lay a ghost to rest and it's desecration. You buy food to eat, gas to go one place to another, and silver bullets to kill a wolf terrorizing a town, and it's credit card fraud. It's just a question of how you wanna look at things, I guess."

"Well you're fucking crazy," Dancy said, awed.

"Our grandparents, mom and dad were all killed by demons," Sam said, quietly, looking down at Dean, "My girlfriend too. Dean's all I got left. He's a mess, you know. He's been through a lot, and I'm not just talking about tonight. I wanna leave 'cos I don't want to mess up your case, sure. Mostly though, I wanna leave just so I can get him out of here."

"I can't just... believe you," Dancy said, "You know that, right? I'm testing the prints on the gun. I'm calling up McBain. I can't just take your word for it... I'm not made like that."

"I know," Sam said, "I don't mind. You take care of whatever you have to, I'll do the same. But if time's important, you wanna go do that now I guess."

"Maybe you'll run when my back is turned," Dancy said.

"If he's stuck here," Sam vowed, nodding at Dean, "I'm not gonna be far."

" " "

The Subway System

" " "

Sam waited for Dean to be moved into a private room before leaving the hospital. Dancy had posted a guard at Dean's the door, and Sam left him his cell number, in case Dean woke up earlier than expected. There were some things that he had to take care of, particularly while Dean was unconscious.

He went back to the tunnels.

Dean never would have let him go down there alone, and damned if Sam was going to let Dean come with him, after everything that had happened. So he took advantage of the time while his older brother was tanked on drugs and sleeping off a concussion.

He grabbed Lewis from Grand Central Station, and asked to be guided to a street-girl named Brenda, who just had a kid. He needed an alternate route, since the cops had boarded up the tunnels he was familiar with, given the massive find of the serial killer's bunker down there that they were investigating. The press was camped left and right of it too.

Lewis appreciated the challenge, the twenty bucks Sam was giving him, and the pack of cigarettes. They found Brenda in no time, and then Lewis left them alone.

"Whatdja want?" Brenda asked him angrily. His and Lewis' arrival had woken the baby girl, who was now crying up a storm in the young mother's arms.

"You know that bunker the cops closed off?" Sam asked, "The one with all the bodies and everything?"

"Yeah," she said, "Everyone's talking about it. Why?"

"You're the one who told me and my brother about it," Sam said, "And we tipped the cops."

"So?"

"We don't want to get involved," Sam said, "But I can guarantee you, if you cooperate, and tell them you're the one who tipped the cops, you and your baby can get out of here, have a better life."

"They'll take her away from me..." she breathed, but her eyes were already large with longing, and hope.

"You can crack a deal with the cops for sure," Sam continued, "And the media's on this like a pack of flies. You can sell your story. If you're smart about all the money you'll get from this... you and your baby won't have to be homeless again."

She licked her lips in thought, and looked down at the baby girl in her arms. "What do I have to do...?"

"Cut me and my brother out of the picture," Sam said, "Keep it simple. Say you tipped the cops with exactly what you told us. The tunnel didn't feel right, no one ever goes down there, and it smelled funny sometimes."

"Okay," she said, softly, clutching her child tighter, "Okay."

"A Lieutenant Lawrence Dancy will get in touch with you," Sam said, "Keep it simple, all right? Everything will be fine."

" " "

When Sam left Brenda, he headed for the dead artist's tunnel, bearing his duffel bag with him.

It was infinitely lonelier, doing this without Dean. Even when they were fighting, or Dean was trembling shockily beside him, his older brother had offered an assurance of inexplicable depth to Sam. He found himself walking faster this time around, because his back felt colder. He hasn't felt this since Dean came back from hell, since that time he had taken on crazy suicide jobs on his own after his brother died. He just wanted this done quick, so he can back to Dean.

_The Last Supper_ was no longer half-done.

Sam's EMF meter was screaming again, and he turned it off, knowing what he would find in the 'haunted hole' anyway. The bunker was not empty. Its owner had gone home, the cans of spray paint in his hands hissing, as he made an addition to his mural.

He did his thing, glancing up at Sam once and then mostly just ignoring him. Sam did his own thing too, and began to pour salt and gas on the bloodied bed. He did not feel threatened at all by the spirit, as he worked. He took a deep breath and stood back.

"You ready?" he asked the ghost.

Ted backed away from his work, and pointed at it. Sam frowned, and peered closer. He and Dean were now part of the mural, looking like country-boy-_Waldo_s in their rugged clothes, standing amidst the bustle of the New York subway rat race, looking misplaced. The brothers were depicted as standing at the foot of stairs that headed up toward a bright exit.

"Good one," Sam murmured, as he lit a match and tossed it against the mattress. It caught fire quick.

Sam waited for the spirit to vanish off in a blast of light, before dousing the flames, fearing to cause some sort of a subway disaster. He looked at the painting of him and Dean again, standing side by side.

He couldn't wait to see his brother awake.

To be concluded in the next post :)


	7. Divine Intervention

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**Underworld**

Summary:The Winchesters stumble into the work of a serial killer running loose in New York, as if Dean's post-traumatic stress syndrome, the police, and 2 Subway ghosts weren't enough to deal with. Set between 4.08 and 4.09.

**Hi gang!**

**Watch out, this one's a double post of the final Chapter, and my usual post-fic Afterword (including massive thanks and notes on your reviews) and a preview of the next fic I'm working on**. Thanks for taking the time to read. _Underworld_ tends to the laborious, I know, haha! I am especially grateful to the reviewers, who fuel and feed the fire. Would you believe when I first posted this a week ago, I was just working on Chapter 3? Now it's done, so thank you, thank you, thank you, and your C&C's are as welcome as always.

Have fun with this last part!

" " "

**Underworld**

" " "

_**6: Divine Intervention**_

New York, New York

" " "

Of all the times he could choose to wake up, Dean did so in the five minutes that Sam was out of his room to get coffee after hours of waiting by his bedside.

Sam stood by the door of the room, steaming coffee cup in hand, and had every intention of ribbing him about it. Had already opened his mouth to do so, as a matter of fact, until he took a better look at his brother, staring listlessly up at th ceiling, eyes blinking as if in slow motion. Dean didn't seem to notice Sam was there.

Sam watched him some more, feeling vaguely voyeuristic but he stood back, held his ground. This was like Dean staring at his menu again, trying to find something buried inside him that would give him the strength to come back.

_Come on back, bro..._

It struck Sam that he's been so eager to have Dean awake that he didn't bother considering how difficult and unpredictable this reunion could possibly be, given that the last time Dean was conscious, he was profoundly and uncharacteristically broken and disarmed. Would Dean wake still shaken? Would Dean wake embarrassed at his breakdown, and resentful of Sam for having witnessed it? Would Dean put on the mask again, and just let things go on the way they always have?

Or maybe it was Sam who was supposed to take the wheel on this? Was he supposed to come in there the way he wanted to, all serious and mothering? Was he supposed to come in, treating his brother they way Dean once would have wanted to, cool and calm, as if the last breakdown hadn't happened? Was he supposed to stand by the door like a wu-- a _little brother_, he corrected himself-- waiting for the older one to give him the cue?

He stood by the door like a _little brother_, and waited for Dean to give him a cue.

Dean's trembling hand lifted up to the mask over half his face, let it rest against his chin. And then his fingers drifted to his neck, searching for his amulet, which was still in Sam's pocket.

Dean frowned deeply, but stared at the ceiling some more. The longer he stared, the cloud lifted in his eyes, making them clearer, sharper. People say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and Dean's going clearer like that almost looked like his soul was physically rising from somewhere inside, back up to a place where Sam could see it again.

"Did I drop it?" Dean asked him, suddenly, without preamble. They both knew what he was talking about.

Sam's lips quirked to a smile. He stepped inside, and sat on the chair by his brother's bed. He fished in his pocket for the amulet, and held it swinging by its string.

"I got it," Sam assured him, "They had to remove it earlier, and then I didn't want to mess up all the wires by putting it back."

"Liar," Dean muttered, "You just wanted it for yourself."

"I'm the one who gave it to you, jerk," Sam said affectionately, grabbing for Dean's wrist nearest him, the one with no IV's attached to it, before he thought twice about it. He slipped Dean's limp hand into the rope, and then wound it once more over so that it loosely resembled a bracelet. He wondered why Dean had let him.

"If I wanted it for me I'd have just kept it," Sam said, satisfied by his handiwork. He patted the back of Dean's hand before releasing it.

"Thanks," Dean muttered, as he looked over at Sam, measuring. "You okay?"

"You're the one who fell and knocked his head," _Among other things_, Sam said, editing out that last part, "Not me."

"A simple yes or no would have been nice," Dean chided, sighing. "I hit my head, huh? I guess that's what it is. I thought there was a bunch of drunken chupacabras doing the macarena and having a party in my head."

"Head hurts, huh?" Sam asked, reaching for the call button, "I'll get someone in here to take care of that."

"Nah," Dean said, pausing, wincing, and then reconsidering, "Maybe in a little bit."

"Okay," Sam said, cautiously, bringing his arm down to the armrest of his seat. He regarded Dean thoughtfully. His older brother was frowning, looking back up at the ceiling again. Sam's own eyes drifted that way too, although he doubted there was anything really fascinating up there.

Dean touch his brow tentatively. "I uh..." he said, thinly, "He was there, and uh... how'd... how'd you get away from Alastair?"

Sam's brows furrowed. "Who?"

Dean blinked at him, looked left and right, and then scowled. "Damn. Wrong fucking hell."

"Dean, are you--"

"I'm fine," Dean said, flippantly, "Concussion, I remember now. I know the drill. Wow, what a trip. Guess that's why I'm tired."

"I'm calling someone, okay?" Sam told him, sounding distressed, and pressing insistently on the call button.

"Okay," Dean said, belatedly. He was already beginning to fall asleep again.

" " "

Dean was relieved when he woke up next to find that first, he was massively more lucid; and second, that both Sam and the New York detective were in his room, and not just his blatantly, stiflingly worried younger brother.

'_I'm calling someone okay?' _in that strained voice of Sam's just rattled him the wrong way, after all.

He remembered more of the snatches of the night before than he did earlier too... he remembered crying, _fuck _did he remember crying. He remembered the cold buried deep in his bones, remembered his brother's arms around him, Sam's voice in his ear. The rest he didn't want to think about, though he suspected they would rear their fugly heads soon enough. All the damned nightmares did.

He found himself... very deeply embarrassed about every little thing. The hospital gown made him feel naked. Everyone standing up while he was lying down made him feel small. When they sat down and he towered over them on his elevated bed, he felt like a doofus. The nurses and doctors' sympathetic smiles made him feel sorry for himself. The poor way he was tracking time and conversations made him feel stupid. Sam looking at him like he was about to shatter to a million pieces made him want to hide under a rock and come back when he was stronger, better, larger... _something_, anything other than what he was.

They talked shop, something he was more at ease with, than having to deal with everything that had happened to him in the tunnels and all that it reminded him of. He was still a little out of it, the pain meds and the concussion keeping him in a light buzz. But it was a good start, a good start to getting back to being better and stronger than the crying, broken, _useless sack of worthless shit_ he had been the night before.

"So the only living survivor of the attacks refused to cooperate with the investigation," Dancy said, reading something he had picked up from the DA's office for the brothers, "He is physically and psychologically unprepared for the upcoming trials, which are to be done expediently and cannot wait for his lengthy recovery. He needs to heal away from the eyes of the public, and he would appreciate your prayers and respect for his privacy."

Dean snorted, "I sound like Britney Spears."

"It's the only thing we can think of to keep you out of this," Sam said.

"And good thinking arranging for that Brenda girl to be the tipper," Dancy approved, "I got to talk to her. She's clean, very straightforward. She's a young mother, no criminal history, and she washes up good, so she looks great on the stand. The prosecutor practically wet himself."

"You arranged for Brenda to testify?" Dean asked Sam pointedly, "You went back down there without me?"

"Um. Yes," Sam said quickly, shifting the topic when Dean's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something else, "So who was that psycho anyway?"

Dancy shook his head and shrugged. "He's just a guy, you know. _Literally_, just a guy. That nine-to-five kind of guy in a cheap suit. His name is _Mike_ for god's sake. He really could have just been walking down the street."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," Dean said, "People are _crazy_."

"Including the two of you," Dancy said gruffly, "Sam told me what you guys do."

"That's only 'cos he's crazier than me," Dean said, glancing at Sam thoughtfully, "So he did, huh? Now what? I don't seem to be cuffed to the bed here... So I'm assuming you're here figuring all this out with us 'cos this ghost-hunting thing suddenly doesn't bother you as much you once thought it might, back when you were an innocent civilian and didn't know anything about all this."

"Oh make no mistake," Dancy said, "I'm bothered _plenty_. But when you see stuff like what I've seen, I'm supposed to be, right? I just thought... maybe you boys have been bothered handling this on your own long enough. I may never have done anything like this before, but I got a shitload of experience telling right from wrong and dealing with it. Helping you out... it feels right."

"Thanks," Dean said, quietly.

"Least I can do," Dancy said, shrugging.

"Well you can do more, you're right," Dean said, beginning to grin.

"If it's not pie say 'no' now," Sam warned the detective.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean said, "Now that all this is wrapping up nicely, I think me and my brother can get out of here, don't you?"

"Reporters are beginning to camp outside," Sam said, "It might be wise. I can check you out AMA if you're absolutely sure, Dean. You look better, but you've got to give me a reason to trust you on this, bro. Are you_ seriously _okay? And think about it first--"

"I'm not great, Sam," Dean said, honestly, the truth just burning in his eyes, "But I'll be better the sooner I get out of here."

"Think you can give us a lift back to the motel?" Sam asked Dancy.

" " "

The doctor emphasized exactly how much they were going _against medical advice_ on leaving, as Sam began working on the forms. Dean's health was fine, but the shrinks wanted their hands on him all right.

"He needs further evaluation," the doctor insisted, "He needs regular therapy, and likely even heavy medication. He looks fine now, but when you left with the visiting hours last night... the nightmares were bad, Mr. Perry."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, stopping writing and looking up at the doctor.

"We had to sedate him," the doctor said, "He was combative, and borderline hysterical. What he had gone through in the tunnels was bad enough, but we think it may have triggered past traumas too. Worse ones."

Sam closed his eyes in despair, and thought. "I'll see about getting him help somewhere else. I want his entire medical file relinquished to me. I'll transfer the case out of New York. He doesn't need all the attention he'll get from the press here. He just needs somewhere quiet, somewhere we can just pick up the pieces."

"I agree," the doctor said, finally, "But you have to deal with this."

"I know," Sam said, thinking, _I know damn well, I just don't know how--!_

"And don't take your time about it either," the doctor said, "From what I can tell of your brother, he is a very cautious, guarded man. When he feels better physically, he will wall himself back up so well he can convince you everything is well again. The floodgates are open now, Mr. Perry. His concussion, his recent experience, the pain meds... will disarm him. You have an opportunity to make breakthroughs."

"Take advantage when his down, you mean?" Sam asked, unable to curb his irritation.

"Sometimes you have to give people what they need," the doctor said, "Which is not always what they would want. This is your choice, and I cannot make it for you. But I thought you should know."

" " "

Dean was moving around like an old man, but Sam let him work it through, gave him the space (arguably, the illusions too) that he needed. The headaches came almost as soon as the IV's were taken off, and he was shifted to oral meds that he took without sarcasm or complaint.

The doctor gave Sam instructions and warning signs to look out for, but Sam already knew all of this by heart, from all the other times he or Dean or their father had ever had their hard heads bashed in. Sam took it all in nonetheless, one eye turned toward the doctor and his peripheral vision attuned to his brother, who had swung his legs over the bed and planted them experimentally on the floor.

The doctor ranted on, as Sam watched Dean slowly reach to put on his socks, and then his boots. He was wearing jeans and a shirt under one of Sam's hoodies, a dark, warm one that Dean seemed to magnetize to every time he felt ill. Sam therefore hated that sweater, but he knew it was what Dean wanted, so Sam brought it for him when he brought Dean fresh clothes from their motel.

The doctor gave Sam the prescriptions, and gave Dean one last, measuring and ultimately disapproving look before relinquishing him to a wheelchair an orderly had brought in.

Dean looked at it in disgust.

Sam glared at him in warning.

His older brother shuffled and sank into it without a word.

Dean sat, head hung low, arms folded in on himself, as if he was trying to be invisible. Sam wheeled him out the back door, away from the prying eyes of the reporters who had gotten word that the sole survivor of the Subway Serial Killer was checked in at the hospital.

Dancy was waiting for them in his still-dusty car, and Dean had looked at it with almost as much dismay as he had looked at the wheelchair. He got up on his own, suffered Sam's hovering spotting, and then slid into the backseat of the sedan, giving his younger brother a sour, triumphant look.

Sam huffed and closed the door for him, and then slid into the passenger seat next to Dancy.

Dean sniffed as he settled down.

It was subtle, but he could smell the oily stench of human decay, couldn't he? He looked around, and found that on the other side of the backseat away from him was the coat he had last seen at the bar on 42nd street, where he had left it on the floor of the coat room.

"You're like a fucking ghost," he muttered at it, as the images of hell went swimming in his still-jumbled head again.

" " "

Sam checked on Dean in the rearview mirror, as Dancy started the car.

The sarcastic look he had put on as a statement to Sam's mothering was gone, and Dean had stiffened inexplicably, looking stricken, as he huddled against the door, as far on one side as possible. His chest was rising and falling in compressed slowness as if he was fighting for control, and losing. He cracked open a window, craned his neck to breathe in the outside air. He closed his eyes to relish it.

Sam frowned, watching his brother's hands spasm on his jeans, trembling, and making wiping motions, as if he found them dirty.

"Dean?" Sam called.

Dean was focused on breathing in the air coming in from his window. It made the entire car cold, and Sam could see gooseflesh on Dean's forearm, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Dean!" Sam called out.

"What?" Dean asked, looking at him irritably, "Why are you shouting at me?"

"You all right?" Sam asked, "You want me back there?"

Dean looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Why the hell would I want you back here? For crying out loud..."

"What's with the window?" Sam asked, glancing at the quietly driving Dancy uneasily, as he shifted Dean's concerns to himself, "I'm getting pretty cold here. Dancy's probably cold too. Aren't _you_ cold?"

"Need some air," Dean muttered, "Does it bother you, detective?"

Dancy glanced at Sam, "Um. No."

"Put on the coat, at least," Sam urged, "The doc said your resistance might be down for a little while, I don't want you to catch anything."

Dean rolled back his eyes, but Sam was already reaching for Dean's coat on the backseat, which he had put there that night he and Dancy had gone after Dean in the subways. He lifted it up and tossed it Dean's way.

"No!" Dean cried out, pressing against his door even more to avoid it, and blinking at Sam, looking bewildered by his own outburst. Sam froze. They barely noticed that Dancy had pulled the car over to a stop.

"I'm not c-cold," Dean muttered, annoyed with himself, but Sam didn't miss the stutter, "It s-smells funny."

"Okay," Sam said, quietly, palm out to Dean as if to calm him. Dean's been having a dispassion for that coat, he noted. It must have reminded him of the tunnels, Sam thought. He grabbed the coat, and noticed that Dean was compulsively dusting at his jeans, as if brushing off the parts of him that had been touched by it.

Sam glanced at Dancy again, looking for... _something_, he wasn't sure. It struck him - rather painfully - that he once thought he knew everything that Dean both wanted and needed, didn't have to look to strangers for answers. Maybe the doctors were right, and that they should get Dean more professional help. But how? Convincing him was going to be impossible. Getting a shrink to believe the trauma from going to hell bit? That was quite plainly, insane. Lying to your shrink, like saying he maybe came from war or something? The lying-to-the-shrink part was just self-defeating, wasn't it?

"Let me shove that in the trunk," Dancy said, stepping out of the car and grabbing it from the back seat. Dean's face was red with embarrassment, and his shoulders sank low in defeat and embarrassment again. He closed his eyes and shook his head at himself in dismay and disappointment.

Sam watched Dancy walk to the back of the car, totally taking his time.

"Dean?" Sam asked, quietly.

"It really stank," Dean said, flatly, settling his eyes on Sam's earnest ones. "I think we should throw it away."

"Sure," Sam said, keeping the fearful tremble away from his voice, "We'll throw out mine too."

"Not like we paid for them," Deans said with a wan smirk.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, his own smile feeling pained and weary.

" " "

Queens, New York

" " "

Sam had been warned, and so he knew it was coming. But knowing beforehand never really changed the severity of an oncoming storm, did it?

Sam stayed awake, catching the precise moment Dean's breathing pattern changed to sleep, and then catching the precise moment sleep had turned to torture. His voice was low, moaning _No_'s and _You-can'-make-me_'s and, Sam's hated _Stop-using-his-face_'s.

"Dean," he called out, quietly. But that hasn't worked lately, not since they started this New York job.

"Dean, wake up," he said, with more force.

The moans continued, and his brother writhed in his sheets, tangling himself up in his blankets.

"Dean--" Sam began, rising up to his elbows.

"No!" Dean cried out suddenly, sitting up awake, trembling, knife in hand. Sam knew better than to startle him in that state so he just watched, breathlessly, as Dean caught his breaths, and then started to turn the knife over, watching the silver catch the dull moonlight. The glow touched his pale face as it reflected against the blade, and Sam could see the tear-streaks on his cheeks.

Dean gripped the hilt tight, and then turned it over, turned it over and over in his hands, contemplatively.

"No escape," he murmured to himself.

Sam held his breath, as Dean calmly began to turn the knife this way and that, the sharp tip almost kissing the skin on his wrist as he contemplated it with a defeat in his eyes that almost made Sam's heart stop.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, unable to help himself.

His brother started, and then looked at him. Blinked. And then _stared_ at him. Dean looked skeptical for a long moment, before he blinked again, and asked, "What are you doing up?"

The night had just begun.

Dean drifted back to sleep and Sam remained awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to Dean's tell-tale breathing, mind whited out in sheer panic. Countless minutes, maybe hours, went by. When Dean started crying in his sleep, Sam swallowed back his own desires to join him. He got up from his bed, and sat on his brother's bed. Dean was lying on his side, turned away from Sam. He stretched out his legs and leaned against the headboard, determined to settle in. He put a hand over Dean's head, and closed his eyes wearily.

There was something inside Dean that registered his presence and calmed. They both fell deeper asleep like that, even for just a little while.

When Sam woke, it was still night out, and he was still sitting on Dean's bed, and his hand was still on Dean's head. The TV was on, but was muted. Dean was lying down on his side, slightly curled, the small of his back touching Sam's thigh. Sam couldn't see his face, but could feel his body trembling slightly but steadily, broken by sporadic twitches. His fingers were like claws on that remote control.

"Sorry, man," Dean rasped, without even looking, sensing that Sam was awake.

"What for?" Sam murmured.

"Can't sleep," Dean said, "I thought maybe... QVC can do the trick. I can shut it off..."

"No keep it on," Sam encouraged, trying to keep as still as possible, because for some reason, Dean wasn't telling him to bug off. Dean in a vulnerable position was like a wounded animal, ready to spring away if you moved too quickly, or said or did the wrong thing. And if Dean needed him nearby, he didn't want Dean to push him away.

"Thanks," Dean said.

"Are you cold?" Sam asked, after a long, quiet moment.

"Nah," Dean said, even though his voice trembled. Apparently, he didn't want to move either. Sam let it go, for now.

They were both falling asleep again when Dean's breath hitched, and he shuddered, forcing himself awake, keeping Sam awake with him.

"Sorry," Dean said again, more heavily and wearily this time. He still didn't ask Sam to go away.

"It's okay," Sam assured him again, "You all right?"

"Tired," Dean admitted, "But I just can't sleep."

"Anything hurting?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean said, shrugging, "I just can't sleep."

" " "

Neither of them got any sleep that night. It was so purgatorial, this aimless half-sleeping, half-waking, half-conversing thing that they did, what with the night just extending itself and extending itself. Even the day looked gloomy, and they were both exhausted, so they stayed in one more night, another one that also turned eternal.

Sam started off on his own bed. But as night crept on, and then Dean's nightmares worsened, he sat with him, as he had the night before. When Dean started shaking like his very soul was rattling out of his skin, Sam tearfully shook him awake.

"Dean," he said, holding back a sob, "Come on, man."

Had he done this when they were kids, he wondered, as he shook Dean harder, because he sure felt like a helpless child.

"Dean, pl--"

Dean shot up awake with a despairing cry, knife in hand, and then knife against Sam's throat. They stared at each other, stunned into breathless silence.

Sam said nothing, feeling completely and utterly terrified for the first time in a long time. Dean's eyes were manic; large with disorientation, fear and confusion. Sam would never mind dying for his brother. But dying at his hands? Dean would never forgive himself, and Sam couldn't live with that. So he stayed still, and gave Dean the time he needed to come back.

"Stop using his face," Dean said, flatly.

Sam gulped, feeling the knife's cold, cold tip. "Dean," he said quietly, "Please."

Dean let go of the blade as if it burned his hand. His face crumpled, and it was just so... _disfiguring _on him. It was just unabashed, unhidden anguish, disappointment, self-loathing. He ran shaking hands over his face, and took deep breaths as he averted his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault--"

"You mind taking it away?" Dean asked, not touching the blade, not even looking at it.

"Dean, you wouldn't have--"

"Sam, please just..." Dean said, "If only for a little while."

Sam frowned, but picked up the knife, and stood up to put it in his weapons bag. Dean relaxed slightly when it was put away. He looked up at his younger brother miserably.

"I know we're not on a hunt anymore," Dean said in a careful, measured tone, "I don't need anything that works so quick. Maybe... maybe I don't even need it at all."

_The pills_, Sam realized.

"But," Dean stammered, tearing his gaze away, "But I'm really tired, Sammy. I just... I just wanna go to sleep. Just for a little while. You think... maybe... if you could just... It would really help."

" " "

One of his most self-destructive habits after Dean's death was to sit on the passenger side of the parked Impala just outside his paid-for motel room, just breathing in her scent, mixed in with the memories of Dean and their time on the road together. He'd buy up a room and be unable to sleep in it, and head out for the car, just to sit there, and pretend that Dean was behind the wheel and would be when he woke up.

It was Dean's first decent sleep in two days, tanked up on David Calling's drugs. Drugs that Sam had given him, right from his own hands, because Dean had _asked_, and Dean seldom asked for things like that. As a matter of fact, he recognized his own weakness for this enough to relinquish the bottle from his hostage completely, and left it on Dean's night table.

Sam had found the room oppressive a few hours after Dean passed out, and he sat on his seat in the car parked just outside their motel, doors locked, windows rolled up, and he stared out the windshield at nothing.

_God help us_, he thought miserably. How many more nights were going to be like this? How much did Dean have to suffer?

"God please," Sam said brokenly, and the thought had turned into yearning, and the yearning turned to prayer. "God, please..."

"You haven't prayed in awhile."

Sam jumped, and realized that Castiel, Dean's angel-buddy had appeared beside him, on the driver's seat. He looked prim, and ill-suited. But he looked earnest, face turned toward Sam.

"I wasn't," Sam stammered, "I wasn't sure I still had a right."

Castiel just pursed his lips, and looked away. "Your brother is killing himself."

Sam winced, not used to hearing it said so plainly like that.

"I know," he whispered, "I tried to stop him. I thought I would know what to do. I used to know everything he needed. There was a time I knew exactly what to do about him. But he's not the same, and I'm not as strong as I thought I was."

Sam laughed at himself, self-deprecating. "I gave him pills, right from my own hands. I gave him two, because that's how he usually takes it. I'd have given him _six_ if he said it took the pain away. People think I'm spoiled, you know. But he looks at me like that... I would give him anything. If he just asked, I would put that pill in his mouth myself, every single time."

"None of this is your fault," Castiel told him mildly.

"I know," Sam said, simply. "I know that. I can't apologize for dying. I can't apologize for the deal he made. Heck, I can't even apologize for all the mess I did after he died. I don't feel guilt, because that's selfish. I know this isn't about me. But that doesn't change the fact that he's suffering so much, doesn't change the fact that I can't... can't seem to figure out what to do to help him. I can't... I can't even keep him from being afraid, you know? Especially since lately, he's been afraid of me, this... this face."

"I will tell you something he likely never would," Castiel said, "They tortured him unimaginably, you know that. Some of his torturers wore your face, you know that too. And I tell you know... anything that wore your face, Dean let them hurt him. He wouldn't lay a finger on you."

"How does that--"

"Let me finish," Castiel told him, "He let 'you' hurt him, Sam. He'll always let you hurt him. Isn't it suffice to believe that he will let you get away with a lot of things, then? Give him time, and he will let you heal him too."

"How long will that take?" Sam asked, bitterly, "He's so... so... broke. He's so broken. I mean you took away all his scars, _all of them_. Obviously there's something you can do, something... _anything_..."

"The Lord adores his broken vessels, Sam," Castiel said, "The ones who are emptied are the ones who can be filled. Your brother and you... you both have different strengths. You derive yours from avoidance of defeat, he takes his from his capacity to weather them. He seems defeated now, broken, and this unseats you, because you are made like your father. But Dean is different. He will weather it, rest assured. And he is not going to be alone."

"He'll weather it," Sam repeated, closing his eyes, despairing, "I know. I know. But can you... he just... he needs a little help. He needs a little help. He's not Superman."

He censored the pop culture reference, suddenly remembering who he was talking to. Besides, Dean was more of a Batman anyway; more human, more flawed, more limited, something he himself just realized not too long ago.

"He just needs to sleep," Sam went on, "Even for just tonight, he just needs... he just needs a leg up, get him on his feet, you know? If you could... if you could just..."

"You haven't prayed in awhile," Castiel said again, when Sam rambled himself into silence.

"You haven't answered in awhile," Sam snapped.

Castiel looked at him pointedly, and then nodded.

" " "

Dean woke from a nightmare sometime in the early morning to find that Sam went on a supply run, had left him a note right underneath the tic-tac container of stolen pills that now sat on his nightstand.

Dean had been so relieved to see the damn things, and had been so shaken by this nightmare that he reached out and grabbed two blindly, and staggered for a liquor chaser, before going back to bed.

He must have fallen asleep again, because he woke from another nightmare, and everything looked the same and struck him the same way, so he reached for the bottle too, and took another pill. And then he put the plastic bottle reverently and possessively in his pockets, just in case Sam changes his mind about Dean having them back.

He laid in bed, and closed his eyes.

It was like a shot loud in a quiet night, the way the realization came and hit him. He pushed himself up and ran to the bathroom, falling on is knees as he tried to get rid of what had apparently been an accidental overdose. He seemed to have forgotten that wanting to forget didn't necessarily mean he wanted to fucking _die_.

"You pray to this god more than to your Father."

He'd have jumped if he had the juice. But he had fingers to his tongue, trying to inspire his gag reflex, quite _busy. _Or maybe he was just getting used to Castiel appearing out of nowhere, unannounced, like he owned the place.

"What?" Dean asked him breathlessly, confused, drawing his fingers out of his mouth and looking up at the angel, standing by the door of the bathroom.

"One has heard of the term: porcelain gods," Castiel replied, holding his distance, tilting his head at Dean in appraisal.

Dean narrowed his eyes in further confusion. Blinked once, twice, before it finally hit him, and he shook his head in amused dismay. He laughed without spirit, but his eyes must have lightened, even a little bit. Because he was tired, and he was ill, and still he found it honest-to-god funny too.

"Cas," he tsked, "Correct me if I'm wrong. Did I just," he paused for mocking effect, "Did I just sense a sense of humor?"

Castiel's lips tightened. Dean couldn't tell, really, but it could have been a grim smile.

"Our Father equips us as the situation demands," Castiel explained, "As is needed. Around you, I find that it is a preoccupation I can be familiar with."

"And it dies as quickly as it appeared," Dean grunted, shoving his fingers back into his open mouth, warbling his words, "How tragic."

His stomach clenched and he gagged, and he indulged it, but all he hacked out was air. He groaned miserably, before sighing in frustration and sitting heavily on his rump on the cold floor. He eventually remembered to feel some unease that the angel was just watching him in that impenetrable, unflappable way. Pensive, mostly patient, observant. Unhesitating.

"It's impolite to stare," Dean rasped at him.

Castiel pursed his lips, appeared to have come to a decision. He stepped forward, and squatted before Dean.

"What are you doing?"

"What's it look like?" Dean snapped, irritable, "I think I made a mistake and I'm getting rid of it." He threw up his hands in frustration, "I'm not doing too good a job, unfortunately. But I don't think I'm gonna die, 'cos you're here now. So I'm tired, I'm sick, and I'm not even gonna bother anymore."

"You won't die," Castiel confirmed, mildly, "Because I'm here. But that is not the question. What are you doing, Dean? To yourself?"

"What's one more sin, what's one more vice," Dean replied, irreverent, almost sing-song, because he really didn't feel like talking about this right now.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said, changing the subject, "I tried to kill you, right? Did I hurt the guy you're riding? Did I kill this dude?"

"We have saved souls and bodies much more far gone, Dean," Castiel said, looking at him pointedly.

"So you have," Dean murmured, looking away. He cleared his throat, and his voice was louder, more pretentiously jovial and confident when he looked at Castiel again. "That's what I thought. I was kinda worried, but I'm glad. Wouldn't wanna harm the accountant, or whatever he is. I think he's an accountant. He looks like an accountant. Is he an accountant?"

Castiel looked at him thoughtfully, let him ramble. For one reason or another. He looked like he made another decision again, and sat cross-legged on the tile, the position looking oddly graceful on him, made him look like an attentive child.

"The guy," Dean said, "He asked to do that, right?"

"Yes," Castiel replied, "He wished to serve the Lord."

"I," Dean hesitated, "I didn't ask. For anything."

"No, you didn't," Castiel confirmed.

"And," Dean gulped, and damn it all but the fire and the smell and the screams were making their way back to every blink and dark again, "And I topped it all off with... with all that shit I did. How... how could..." he took a deep, shaky breath, trying to gather his thoughts.

"An accountant," he probably wasn't but Dean's head was stuck on it now, "An accountant asks to serve right? I guess some people get whatever the hell they pray for. I never asked to be saved. And I made... made myself even... even less, because of everything I've done down there. I don't... I can't make sense of it. Why I deserve another chance. Why I get pulled out. How could... how could I possibly be..."

"Worthy," Castiel finished for him, apparently and finally taking pity on the futile quest for a decent, representative word.

"Yeah," Dean winced, "Yeah."

He cleared his throat, uneasy, because there was a pit in his stomach and a lump in his throat that kind of just crawled its way there.

"Not the first time this happened either," Dean grunted, shifting, "Something always somehow saves me. But then again you knew that. People died, trying to save my unworthy ass too. How many of 'em have to die for me to live, huh? Maybe I should just let the damn pill and bottle take me after all, before I up the count, huh?"

"How many of them have to die for you to believe you are worthy, Dean?" Castiel countered, "And raised from hell, no less. Is there anything that can make you believe?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted, rubbing at his aching head, "I can't think. I can't think anymore. Or maybe because the answer's nothing. The souls I broke apart... I tore into 'em. Just... _tore_ into 'em. I can hear them in my head. I can smell them. Nothing can clean me up. I just wanna stop. I just wanna sleep."

He laughed at himself. "I'm so gross, lately. I can't fucking sleep, right? The only time I could was if I kinda just... drop. Like, suddenly, no one's home. And I'm in bed with all my dirty clothes on. It was the only kind of sleep I got and some nights, I get lucky and I don't even dream. That is," he patted at the container of pills in his jeans pocket, "That is until I got my hands on these babies."

"What are you going to do, when they run out?" Castiel asked him.

"I got me some prescription pads," Dean said, "And I got bad handwriting. Match made in substance abuse heaven."

"Your brother is worried about you," Castiel said, playing the Sam-card because everyone knew that was exactly how to get whatever they wanted out of Dean Winchester.

"I'm worried about me," Dean snorted, before shifting, more seriously, "I uh... I almost fucked up, out there. I was so jittery, I was just screwed up. The medicine – and you gotta believe me, that's exactly what they are – you know what they say... they take away my pain, and they help me do my job. What else can anyone say to that?"

"You are killing yourself, Dean," Castiel told him, plainly, "This cannot go on any more and any further."

"What?" Dean joked, quoting him, mimicking the angel's dead-serious delivery from one of their earlier exchanges, "Stop it? Or you will?"

"Dean..." and he sounded so weirdly, uncharacteristically helpless, didn't he? Brows furrowed, the angel pursed his lips again, and again came into one more decision. He leaned forward, and touched Dean's shoulder insistently, right where his hand had once made an imprint on Dean's body. Both of them caught the distinction, and maybe Castiel was working on pulling him out of another hell here...

"I cannot tell you to be strong," Castiel said, "Because we both know you are. Stronger than any human I have come to know. I cannot tell you to have faith, because the time for that will come on its own. I cannot insist on your worthiness, because that is something you have to understand yourself. I cannot tell you all is well, or that this will just pass, because you have a right to feel pain for your suffering, and the suffering you have inflicted."

"So you're absolutely useless," Dean said.

"What I _can_ do," Castiel said, ignoring the jibe, "Is tell you to be kinder to yourself. Give yourself time. Let yourself be helped. You were gone for a lifetime. Too many changes below, too many changes up here. You cannot expect yourself to be the same; to be just as unfazed, as fit, as fearless. If you are weary, rest. If you are ill, stop. If you stumble, let people catch you. If you fall, let them give you a hand. If your mind is shaken, speak of it, let yourself be heard, and let yourself be consoled.

"Life cannot be this," Castiel finished, looking around the miserable bathroom.

"I guess I just..." Dean hesitated, and the damn lump was still in his throat, closing it up, choking him from the neck up, and that must be the only reason his eyes were watering.

"I mean you've taken away all the damn scars," Dean said, shakily, "Why couldn't you have taken away the memories too? How any more fucking hard could that one last, little part be?"

"All scars come with a lesson, don't they?" Castiel asked, "This, the one in your head. This is the one that is most worth your remembrance in your second life. You have been hurt. Worse, you have hurt others. And now you are here, working in a way I have not seen on others of your kind before, working so that others would not be subject to the pain you had. And further, making up for the pain you caused. And we both know there are few forces in the world stronger than a man on a search for redemption, which, I must say, you have now become."

"In short you needed a sinner," Dean said, distastefully, rubbing his face wearily, and Castiel's hand should already be paying for rent on that space he hasn't freed on Dean's shoulder.

"We needed a warrior motivated to an unparalleled degree," Castiel said, "There is a difference. You are driven by fear and guilt and love. There are few who have all these forces within them. All that you lack is faith, but that will come too."

"I'm just so tired," Dean said, voice low, just a little bit broken. His mind was hurting from this conversation.

"And so you must rest," Castiel said simply, booking no arguments as he rose effortlessly to his feet. Dean looked up at him blearily, unable to follow.

"I can't," he said, "I got all this shit inside me, I gotta get rid of it, or I might never wake up."

"You will not die," Castiel promised, "Because I am here."

"I can't sleep anyway," Dean admitted, "I got all this shit in my head--"

"I too, can help on that score."

Dean looked at him skeptically, before a thought formed in his mind. "Wait a second. Those times... those times I just fall on my face asleep, and I'm just in deep and not dreaming. You have anything to do with that?"

Because angels weren't always visible, were they? And because _this one _in particular had a habit of knocking people out harmlessly, not to mention had a thing about bugging Dean about sleep.

The angel was gonna plead the fifth on that one. He kind of just looked at Dean in a bemused, sort-of benevolent way, that gave up so little that it gave up everything, really.

Dean just shook his head at him in dismay. "Next time, wait until I've showered and changed or something."

Castiel just shrugged, and offered Dean his hand to help him rise.

_Grip me tight_, Dean thought, _Raise me from perdition_...

"I'm sorry," Dean said with a grunt, when he took the offering and levered himself up. He swayed, and sagged against – he figured now – his quiet guardian.

"You are always sorry," Castiel said, gripping Dean by the elbow in support, "In this instance, I am hard-pressed to discover for what."

"You dudes are busy," Dean said, "The seals are aplenty. Your brothers have fought and died. Are maybe fighting and dying. And you're helping out a drunk druggie in a crappy bathroom."

"No task is too large for the Lord," Castiel said, unlocking the door and leading the two of them out, "That means there is no task too small. No man too insignificant. There is no man unworthy of His attention."

"Not even me," Dean said, sounding sarcastic.

"Not at all," Castiel murmured, sitting him down in bed, and gently pushing him to lean back.

Dean let him. He was tired, and maybe he had to give this receiving help / talking like a girl about his feelings thing a shot. Keeping his hell-shit to himself hasn't worked, after all. Getting into some other guy's drugs didn't help much either. What the heck. One of these days, he might even work his way up to talking about all of this at length with Sammy.

"Wait," Dean said, as Castiel made to put his hand upon Dean's face. He fished around in his jeans pockets, and drew out the Tic-tac bottle.

"Get rid of this, will ya?" he asked, "Please. Before I change my mind."

"What of the liquor?" Castiel asked, taking the bottle.

"Do I look like a fricking saint?" Dean said, grinning at him rakishly.

Castiel smiled at him tightly, as in some sort of acquiescence. He did not look surprised or offended.

"I'll try for less," Dean resolved.

"Good night, Dean," Castiel said, quietly, looking down at him.

"Thanks, man," Dean said, closing his eyes as Castiel pressed a hand to his forehead.

The darkness sucked him in at once.

It was empty, sure, but at least it was quiet there.

" " "

Sam came to the sudden realization that he had once felt a very human sense of jealousy and rivalry against Castiel. He realized this because when he returned to their motel room from his 'supply run -' i.e., time enough for Castiel to go try his angelic bit on his older brother – Dean was resting in deep, comfortable sleep, the lines on his face calm, his breathing easy.

Sam wondered if Castiel sensed it, because Sam felt that it was practically bleeding out of him right now. Sam wanted to be the one to pull Dean from hell. Sam wanted to be the one who could comfort him. But the feeling had vanished completely too as he just watching Dean sleep. Sam was just relieved that there was someone, _anyone_ out there, who can give his brother some form of comfort.

The angel was seated on Sam's bed, playing with the plastic pill bottle in his hands, the sharp sound of the tiny pills bouncing around making awkward noises in the otherwise quiet room.

"He gave me this," Castiel said, looking up at Sam, "Asked me to be rid of it."

"That's good," Sam said.

The angel got to his feet, and offered it to Sam.

"He asked you to get rid of it," Sam said.

"I a certain you will dispense of them as you see fit," Castiel said, "There are choices you both have to make in this war, Sam. Harsh ones. This may be one of them."

Sam took the proffered bottle, thoughtfully. So it goes back to him again after all.

He toggled with the idea of just tossing it in the trash. But Dean wasn't Superman, no. It wouldn't hurt to keep it around, just in case things got rough. And knowing their luck (or lack thereof), _rough_ was practically a given.

"You will know what to do with them," Castiel assured him, "You will always know him best, Sam. Just give him time. He will let you help him, he will let you heal him. He was gone for a lifetime, you see. Too many changes below, too many changes up here. Neither of you can expect to be the same, or return to old patterns quickly. But you'll always know what to do, Sam. Know when to press, when to push, when to stay back. When to be silent, when to speak, when to listen."

"A time for everything under the heavens," Sam chuckled nervously, recalling a passage from the bible.

"Indeed," Castiel agreed, as he made for the door.

"Good night, Cas," Sam said, quietly, "Tell God thanks or something. For... for bringing him back. Then, and then now... you know."

"You should tell Him so yourself," Castiel told him.

"I can't go back to old patterns quickly, you said," Sam admitted, "Maybe there will be a time for that again too."

" " "

They hit the road that morning feeling more energized.

_Give yourself time_, Dean recalled, and he let Sam drive. The headaches have gone, and the lethargy and disorientation that accompanied his concussion. Maybe that was time taking care of him, maybe that was Castiel touching him, because the bruises and cuts had almost faded to nothing too. Either way, case was over, body was healing, mind was... headed that way or at least pointed in roughly the right direction now, he was in good spirits, and he was on the road with Sam again. In short, life was good.

His younger brother looked relaxed too, handling the Impala with an ease that maybe Sam himself didn't recognize. Dean had realized after returning from Hell that Sam's movements with the car were more precise, more fluid, more at home. It was supposed to rankle him a little because she was his car. But he never had any problems sharing the most important things in life with Sam anyway.

As a matter of fact, he didn't even mind that Sam was damn good at pool now and also potentially better than him. _Potentially_. Maybe he'll find out. The two of them haven't faced off in anything like that in years, so focused were they on hustling other people for their work. Getting to work with Sam again, he realized, wasn't always equated to getting to know him again.

"Hey Sammy," Dean said.

"Yup?"

"I think I saw a bar back there," Dean said, "Wanna turn around? We're not on any case yet and it might be good to just hang back, you know. Grab a drink. Grab a girl. Strip some dudes of a couple of bills, just replenish our stock."

"Sounds good," Sam said.

"You ah..." Dean grinned, "I was thinking we can do the my-brother-is-drunk act. You wanna take the helm on this one?"

"You always played the drunk brother part, Dean," Sam laughed.

"Well you picked up a few tricks after all," Dean said, "Wanna give it a shot?"

"Sure," Sam said, laughing again. It was a great sound, on him. It was nice for the car to sound with laughter again, because laughter reverberated in that space in such a familiar, intimate way, engulfing everything.

"Good," Dean said, leaning back in satisfaction as Sam made the perfect turn toward the bar they had spotted.

"They won't know what hit 'em," Sam said.

"Damn straight."

**The End**

12/21/2008

Swing on by to the next chapter if the method of the madness interests you, haha. _Underworld _will be discussed in an Afterword published concurrently with _Chapter 6_, along with a preview of my new fic!

**Afterword Contents:**

**I. Tying in With the Series**

_Discusses how _Underworld_ fits in between episodes 4.08 and 4.09_

**II. The Characters**

_Discusses the role reversal of the brothers, Dean's coping mechanisms, and other notable quirks or potentially debatable characterizations_

**III. Myths, Legends and Weird Facts About New York**

_Discusses the factual bases of the trivia information used on the case, and further reading for anyone interested. Covers the Subway, The Homeless and the Mole People, Graffiti and Street Art, and Murders in New York._

**IV. Massive Thanks and Replies**

_Shout-out to reviewers and responses to comments that may be of some interest to other readers_

**V. The Next Project: **_**Steps Behind**_

_Preview of my hopefully up-and-coming new fic_


	8. Afterword and Preview: Steps Behind

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**Underworld**

Summary:The Winchesters stumble into the work of a serial killer running loose in New York, as if Dean's post-traumatic stress syndrome, the police, and 2 Subway ghosts weren't enough to deal with. Set between 4.08 and 4.09.

" " "

**Underworld**

" " "

**Afterword**

" " "

**Contents:**

**I. Tying in With the Series**

_Discusses how _Underworld_ fits in between episodes 4.08 and 4.09_

**II. The Characters**

_Discusses the role reversal of the brothers, Dean's coping mechanisms, and other notable quirks or potentially debatable characterizations_

**III. Myths, Legends and Weird Facts About New York**

_Discusses the factual bases of the trivia information used on the case, and further reading for anyone interested. Covers the Subway, The Homeless and the Mole People, Graffiti and Street Art, and Murders in New York._

**IV. Massive Thanks and Replies**

_Shout-out to reviewers and responses to comments that may be of some interest to other readers_

**V. The Next Project: **_**Steps Behind**_

_Preview of my hopefully up-and-coming new fic_

**I. Tying in With the Series**

My ultimate goal in writing _Underworld _is to make it feel like a part of the series, which is why I took extreme care in making sure it "felt right" if you know what I mean, in terms of timelines and the characters' frames of mind at that space in time.

This fic is set between _Wishful Thinking _and _I Know What You Did Last Summer_. The timing is primarily relevant to the character development made by these two episodes regarding the circumstances of Dean's time in hell.

When I started writing this story, it was set early in season 4, at a period of time when the only thing we audiences of the show was privy to was Dean's lack of a memory of his time in hell. The main theme was the two brothers learning to work together again. This was obviously revised it after the first half of season 4 though, when the focus became how they were coping with Dean's time in hell. I'm not sure, but I think the first preview of _Underworld_ in the Afterword of one of my earlier fics even had slight differences from the final version you see posted here because of that shift :)

One of the major reasons why I wanted to write a filler for after 4.08 and before 4.09, is that I was wondering what would make Sam stop asking Dean about hell, such that in 4.10, he said something like '_You're not talking so I'm not pushing_.' I felt that, sure, Dean asking Sam to stop asking about hell at the end of _Wishful Thinking_ might be enough for him to back off (even invoking Sam's '_I can't make you understand_' from_ Metamorphosis_)_, _but I also felt that Sam wouldn't stop asking Dean about something that was clearly bothering Dean and endangering his health. I wanted Sam to push harder and for Dean to push back.

This of course, eventually led up to the scene in _Chapter 5: Escape _in this fic where Sam promised he would never bring it up again until Dean was ready, and in _Chapter 6: Divine Intervention _when Castiel advises him to give Dean time. I figured these should be enough of a reason to get Sam to stop nagging Dean about hell, right until episode 10, when Dean is the one who opens up the conversation about it.

On a minor note, you may have noticed that the ending of _Underworld_ alludes to the boys heading to go to a bar to play some pool, which is where _I Know What You Did Last Summer_ starts off. _Underworld_ also showed that Sam's pool game has improved vastly and may even be better than Dean's, which might also explain why it was Sam hustling in pool in 4.09 instead of Dean.

On another minor note, _Underworld _makes reference to a non-series/non-season but officially-sanctioned _Supernatural_ story: DeCandido's _Nevermore_ novel. That was set in New York too, and his "spook beat" and detective Marina McBain are the ones alluded to in _Chapter 5: Escape_.

**II. The Characters**

**A. The Winchester Brothers' Role Reversal**

I had a ball flipping their roles around. I guess the series is making some reference to this too, which is why this is very prominent in _Underworld_. The instances in season 4 that immediately come to mind would be 4.07 when Sam pretty much orders Dean to handle the living dead while he went on to handle Samhain; then there's Sam pulling Dean from his nightmares in 4.08; there's also Sam hustling now, instead of Dean in 4.09. There might be a few others, but these are the things I could think of off the top of my head. Sam is beginning to take the lead in the hunt, and I wanted to portray that.

Note that one of the chapters is called _Chapter 3:Turf_. In that chapter, the obvious territorial issue is whether or not the brothers were supposed to handle 'live' cases instead of just supernatural ones. To a lesser extent, 'turf' also referred to the brothers stepping into each other's toes in the process of shifting roles. I've made it a point to show Sam's protectiveness all throughout _Underworld_, but it was especially pronounced in the chapter 3, especially as it collided with Dean. The other subtler role reversal for me in that chapter was when Dean was the brother bothered about the raising of kids in dangerous situations, leaving Sam to point out that they were raised the same way. Originally, I wrote it such that Sam was the one bothered and Dean was the one defending the lifestyle, until I realized the reverse felt more appropriate.

**B. Sam's Protectiveness and Hesitations**

Some of you lovely reviewers pointed out that you enjoyed this portrayal of Sam, and man, I sure enjoyed writing it and I'm so glad it came through. Sam had once asked Dean, at the end of Season 2, '_What do you think my job is?'_ and I think this should come off more in Season 4, where we see him much stronger, more formidable, especially when Dean's stumbling a little bit. Although... of course massive changes in their roles shouldn't come easy, and I felt I had to write that he had some hesitations about taking over the protective role: he wasn't always certain about his position or what to do, or how Dean would receive it, and he most certainly still wasn't above making use of _Please_ to make his older brother give in, haha. I really hope it's not out-of-character. I knew I was treading a dangerous line when I was writing out the dialog and realized I could interchange some of the lines between Dean and Sam, which I've never been able to experience in my other fics before, because they were such distinct characters. I hope their 'voices' in _Underworld _is still believable and characteristic though.

Another thing about Sam's character that I felt was important to convey in a fic set in Season 4 is how he relates to his faith. He'd always been the one who was more open to God, but I figured Dean's death and their collision with the angels in 4.07 would be enough to put some dents in a once-prayerful demon-boy, haha.

Finally, I wanted Sam to have one on one time with Castiel. I wanted him to feel a very human sense of jealousy and rivalry with the angel who had saved his brother, but also gratefulness. I also wanted to give a treat for those who have read _From Perdition _(which was a clip from _Underworld_ posted a few weeks ago as a one-shot), and surprise them that the reason Castiel was with Dean was because Sam had prayed for it. His first prayer in a long time, even. Note though that the version of _From Perdition_ as it appears in _Underworld_ is slightly different from the one originally posted. I edited it so that it feels more like a part of a larger whole, rather than a one-shot shoved into a story.

On a side note, _Chapter 6: Divine Intervention_ is actually a play on words too, haha. The term is of course, a commonly used one. More recently though, the word "Intervention" has broken into mainstream pop culture with heavy reference to that show where family members try to break their loved ones from some form of an addiction. I wonder if anyone else got that, haha.

**C. Dean's Trauma and Yielding Control**

This was very, very tricky for me! I enjoy hurt/comfort fics as much as the next guy, especially when it comes to Dean, sure. I think the importance of a hero is pronounced by the test of death, so yeah, bring on the h/c haha. But I hate depicting overboard need and weakness. I think if you've read my other fics, I've also expressed hesitation in depicting Dean as weak or needy. So this aspect of the characterization in _Underworld_ worried me more than a little, haha. Open need is just not sexy, haha.

I felt, however, that depicting Dean's broken floodgates so to speak was necessary though. It was necessary because he and Sam both needed a wake-up call about how serious his problems could get. I also felt his fragility is relevant in developing the protective streak of Sam as he is depicted here, and Dean's understanding of what had changed in Sam since he got back (one of my favorite scenes ever in Season 4 is Dean watching Sam patch himself up in 4.09. It was so subtle, but he had an expression that something was dawning on him).

I just hope that the depiction of weakness and need was realistic, and the transition from mild panic to addiction to full-blown hysteria and then back to some form of carefully-managed control was believable. I think that's also why I threw in a concussion aside from the memories, haha, just so that if the issue is raised, I can say it's not in character precisely because he hit his head too, haha :)

**III. Myths, Legends and Weird Facts About New York**

One of the major reasons why I hesitated to post this fic was because of its unabashed and over-indulgent love of New York, haha. Seriously though, I felt that the descriptions might be alienating, especially since I'm not a professional writer and might not be able to convey the city's spirit properly and end up turning off readers.

New York had been the setting to another _Supernatural_ fic of mine before if you've read it, _One Week_, but not quite to the level of _Underworld_, which sort of became my homage to the weird and wonderful stuff that one finds here, especially off the beaten path. I truly, truly *heart* NY, and I think setting _Underworld_ here makes the fic unique, what with the cityscape which you don't find in the series much.

I incorporated a lot of facts in _Underworld_ because strangely enough, truth really is wackier than fiction, haha. To get a better fill of the wackiness that is New York, pick up Chris Gethard's _Weird New York_ which is part of that _Weird_ series. I'm not sure if I remember correctly, but Kripke and co. might have referred to this series of books in some interview somewhere.

Anyway, the occasionally encyclopedic tone this fic takes when talking about the historical background of something is actually loosely based on facts. If you're curious:

**A. The Subway**

The numbers mentioned here are based on facts (rounded up or down, I forget, but I think I got them right unless I got cross-eyed, haha): the ridership levels, the number of trains and stations and track miles, I think this is published on the MTA website, which you should check out for accuracy.

The occasional confusion of the complex underground map is also well-documented; people really do make interesting finds there once in awhile. I didn't bother being too specific with the directions though, because I'm not an expert, so I just focused on atmospheric descriptions and ones that were convenient to the unfolding action.

The mention of secret subway stations is also true: in the 1870's a guy named Alfred Beach showcased a beautiful subway station that he had built entirely in secret, which was eventually closed down and forgotten until it was discovered by construction workers in 1912.

The existence of Closed subway stations and platforms is also true. Of particular note is the City Hall stop (not the one currently in operation but another one), which was closed down for security concerns and because it was too small for the long trains that are now being used to accommodate more riders. It literally has chandeliers and stained glass décor, and the MTA actually allows tours there once in awhile for their members. You can find details on this online, and videos of people going on tours to see this secret station in YouTube.

A closed lower-level platform of note is the one at the Port Authority Station, which, if you like hints on pop culture like I and most other _Supernatural _fans are, was used for the filming of _Ghost_ (which had a Subway Ghost too, and a pop-culture phenom film that was invoked in the Season 2 episode _In My Time of Dying_)

For further reading, you may want to look up _Invisible Frontier: Exploring the Tunnels, Ruins, and Rooftops of Hidden New York_ by Deyo and Liebowitz. It's a mission-log of their adventures in a fairly new trend called Urban Exploration, which is exactly what it sounds like, haha, except you're scaling buildings and forbidden urban sites instead of mountains and caves. It requires as much planning and skill too. The book is a little bit self-indulgent in style, almost elitist and cliquish, actually, haha, but the information they provide is very very interesting and well-conveyed.

**B. The Homeless Situation and the Myth of the Mole People**

There is an actual urban legend about "Mole People," and one of the landmark books that brought the homeless situation in the tunnels of New York to the public interest is Jennifer Toth's _The Mole People: Life in the Tunnels Beneath New York City_. It is an absolute must-read. There's been some controversy on whether or not the facts in the book are properly backed up, but nevertheless it remains riveting, and definitely brought interest to the homeless situation. After the book came out (in the 90's I think), the clean-ups became more aggressive, there was news coverage and even talk show appearances of some homeless people, and a bunch of films came out a few years later too. One of the critically-acclaimed ones is _Dark Days_ and there is a long clip of this in YouTube, if you just want to get a glimpse of what it's like down in the tunnels and the sorts of people who live there, and to have a feel of the atmosphere _Underworld_ tries (desperately!) to convey. The urban legend about a devil living in the tunnel is also something I picked up from this book.

There's some trivia about homeless people in New York that was provided in this fic. The racial demographics are based on studies published all over online, and even the interesting and quirky educational levels and criminal statistics of the people in the tunnels. There's been some issue as to which reporting bodies are most representative and objective, but the trivia is still worth thinking about, if taken with a grain of salt.

Another thing mentioned in _Underworld_ is that some families choose to live underground rather than be torn apart by CPS. I think I got that idea from an instance mentioned in Toth's book, though I could be wrong.

**C. Street Artists and Graffiti**

Graffiti has been around for ages, all the way back to ancient art on cave walls. But New York in the 70's gave birth to the rebellious version as we currently know it. The quick history Sam shared with Dean regarding the messenger who is credited as being one of the forerunners of the modern format is an actual guy who went by the tag Taki183, I think. I read somewhere that his story was even featured in the_ New York Times_.

The idea of a subway tunnel art in _Underworld _though (actual pieces, and not just tags), was inspired by several New York street artists. There is an actual "Freedom Tunnel" in New York where the Amtrak tunnel looks like a gallery of the works of an artist who signs as "Freedom." He is a famous street artist, who has even caught the eye of the Museum of Modern Art. Some people who have trespassed into the Amtrak Tunnel where his work can be found have even documented this in YouTube. Check it out if that interests you :) Other landmark street artists of note are brothers Smith and Sane, who made the news when they were sued by the city for 3 million dollars for what they do (I think the charges were dropped shortly after Sane unfortunately died, at aged eighteen).

In _Underworld_, the fictional artist Ted makes a painting of _The Last Supper_ in his tunnel. This may sound crazy, but street artists do grand homages like that all the time. There have been street art of Michaelangelo's _Creation_, Goya's _Third of May_, and even Dali's dripping clocks, all on urban landscapes all not sanctioned by the government.

**D. Murders in New York and The Cold Case Squad**

For further reading on this, check out _The Restless Sleep: Inside New York City's Cold Case Squad_ by Stacy Horn. Fascinating and utterly horrifying stuff. I didn't present any specific numbers on the unsolved murders and missing persons cases in New York in _Underworld_, but I did mention that there was a good number of them. Check out the teaser in Horn's book: "Between 1985 and 2004 a staggering 8,894 unsolved murders were committed in New York City. The killers continued to walk the streets while the dead lingered in an uneasy limbo." Imagine that, killers just walking around? I wanted _Underworld_ to convey that level of profound unease. There's a good number of someones out there who've gotten away with their crimes for years.

Oh, and by the way, the Jack the Ripper reference and the theory that he used the London sewers for stalking, hiding and escaping?. I saw it on an episode of _Cities of the Underworld_ in the History Channel. Awesome show, if you can catch it, do so.

**IV. Massive Thanks and Replies**

I know I've been saying this a lot but it's true, I really don't get a lot of reviews (especially if you look at it in a number-of-words-in-a-fic-to-number-of-reviews ratio haha) so I'm extremely thankful for everyone who took the time. I know we're all busy, and there's a whole lot of beautiful life to be lived outside of the fandom, so thanks for even taking the time to read and sharing the passion with me :)

I arranged my thanks list in alphabetical order, except for those who are given specific responses to their commentary, or those who have posted reviews after I posted this thanks. If I missed your name, I would be happy to be called out on it, because everyone deserves a shout out :)

**Lots of love to**: apieceofcake, Buckeye mom, Chiiyo86, cozmikfaerie, DeanBeanWinchester, fearlessgoddess2, golden starfish, greco, InSecret, JE Apple, Kelcor, Lee, princess peanut, Psychee, riquitv, seamonkey, sella117, Sue Pokorny, Wastinaway, and Zubeneschamali.

**Lots of love also to**:

adder574: Thank you for saying it feels like it could be an episode; this is one of the highest forms of compliments for me, because if you've read the afterword, I try really, really hard to make this so. I really hate for _Underworld_ to feel totally alien from the series.

Alienmom: I'm happy you enjoyed _Underworld_ enough to suggest a **sequel**, haha. But it took me forever to write this one and find the guts to post it, so I'm thinking a sequel won't be in the cards soon. We can never tell, though!

annie200: I loved what you said about the **existence of anguish despite the reunion**. It can't just be a happy ending, after all the changes that both brothers went through in the months they were apart.

badaiwind: Thank you for making _Underworld _the first time you read an incomplete story, haha! I hope I treated you well and updated in a timely fashion, as I imagine the only reason you don't read fics that aren't concluded yet is the admittedly maddening wait :)

deangirl1: We actually share **a favorite moment on this fic**! When you made the comment about Sam's casually protective hand on Dean's chest, and Dean looking at it like it was an alien growth? That's my favorite moment! I just thought it was such an illustration of the changes that were happening between the brothers :)

Dianne: Oh, I know what you mean about the **boys being fish out of water** here. I wish the show would go into a city more, I really do, it would be so much fun, and accessible especially to a lot of their viewers :) This wishing to see them in a city is almost as prevalent as wishing to see them overseas, haha. But I guess it's a budgetary issue by now.

hopeAndDreams: You're right about that question of **what would make dean get off the rack**. Us fans will find physical pain and torture as far from enough. Even mental torture is questionable, as long as Dean was in some form of possession of himself, it was hard to imagine him hurting other people. Depicting his trauma though kind of forced me to try to find some sort of a reason so there it was, I guess he just lost himself, a kind-of madness. I hope it was plausible :)

Jame K.: Thank you for commenting on the depth of detail, which was initially a deterrent from me posting this. I was actually scared that the prologue and the graffiti would turn off a lot of readers, haha. Thank you!

Jusmine: Thanks for pointing out the corrections, haha. I tend to miss a lot haha! I also love the comment you made on **the brother's silent war on who protects whom**. I took a lot of care on that and I'm glad it came through.

Kalen241: Thank you for saying _Underworld _can be an episode of the show. It's just one of the highest praises ever, and I work hard to make the story, the style and the characterizations fit :)

Mandy: Mandy, Mandy, Mandy! Thank you for the undeserved but nevertheless completely and utterly devoured praises! You really make me want to write better and write more. Your reviews are one of those that when I see it, make me want to post another chapter right away :)

Masondixon: I share your passion for long chapters, haha!

Meggin Lane: Thank you so so so much for saying _Underworld _is one of your best reads on the site. There are a ton of great stuff out there and greater writers, so I am very humbled and grateful.

Phoebe: Your first comment on the LOTR fandom made me laugh, haha! I think they really treated me very, very well, you're right, haha :) They are an utterly wonderful, wonderful bunch. But the _Supernatura_l fandom is a very welcome challenge too :) On another matter, you're right about that Sam's trip issue, I never even thought about that haha. Chock it up to a school-sponsored trip, then, haha! The quip about the novel you're trying to forget made me laugh too; the books aren't so great, are they? But they're fairly entertaining stuff, and I guess I just had to allude to that case since it's New York :)

Rhesa: Haha, I do write "bro" a lot, don't I? I tried to cut back after your comment and I was like, woah! Thanks for pointing it out. And which author wouldn't want to see their fic filmed, you're right. _Underworld_ on the screen? I guess I can always dream, haha. But thank you for saying that you wished it could be filmed. I just hope my indulgent descriptions approximated that a little bit :)

Staceycj: I love your honesty when you said that details on hunts in fanfiction can inspire impatience and boredom, haha! You totally encapsulated my fears in posting _Underworld _and given your feelings, I am even more grateful to you and to everyone who gave it a chance. I was so afraid that people would lose interest, I really was (I still am!) so thank you very, very much for sticking around and reviewing :)

Zatnikatel: Thank you so so so much for the time and effort you put in a review. I admit, when I saw some of the things you said, I was like, 'I'm so happy I'm putting up a new chapter like, _right now!_ It's not just your writing style, and commenting on mine, but your perception and insights. I particularly liked what you said about Dean as a mess, and detailing all the violations of his carefully guarded privacy. Thank you for the reviews, much appreciated and very inspiring :)

**V. The Next Project**

Finally, for those who are interested, this should come out some time in '09 if I ever get around to it, haha. Another step off the beaten path for me, this one is a clip of _**Steps Behind:**_

Title:Steps Behind

Summary:56 seals down, 10 left to open. It's 2009, and Lucifer's standing on the welcome mat. At the eve of the final battle in a losing war, the Winchesters make their last goodbyes, and at this end of days, Dean is finally learning to let Sam go.

" " "

_**Preview**_

2009

" " "

"Dean, you have a visitor."

He looked up at the nurse from... from whatever it was he was doing or looking at, he's forgotten, lost track of the time, been losing track of a lot of things the last few days.

"Thanks," he told her with a wan smile. She was pretty and gracious and he saw her a lot, and yet he couldn't for the life of him even remember her name, or bring himself to care.

Castiel looked as calm as always, striding into his room after she ushered him in. He still looked like an accountant or a bank clerk, sure, but now he looked more grave, like he was predicting the Great Depression.

A year of working with humans and particularly Dean, still did nothing to improve on Castiel's recognition for a wider-berth of personal space; he sat by Dean's IV'd arm, thigh brushing it casually, maybe even obliviously. But at least now he was letting his entrance be announced, and Dean had even caught him knocking on a door once or twice. He remembered thinking, _Holy crap_. And had to physically restrain himself from saying, _Knock knock knockin' on Heaven's door_.

"You look well," Castiel said quietly, "I'm glad. They were not so optimistic when you first arrived, but I knew them to be wrong."

"You should have seen the other guys," Dean smirked at him, half-heartedly, out of sheer reflex. He had been sent out to guard an unopened seal against a very determined bunch of demons, along with a contingent of angels and fellow-hunters a week past. Enemies and allies all died there, and he was the only one who emerged more-or-less alive. His eyes darkened in memory. Colloquially, '_the other guys_' usually meant just the enemy, not your allies, certainly not your friends. But _the good, the bad, and the ugly_, they were all similarly torn up and broken back there. Bodies littering the place, _fucking mess_. He laid on the field amongst the dead and bled and rode that _Runway train ain't never coming back_, and the only thing he could think about was that he was happy his brother, who had been injured on another mission just before his, was stuck cooling his heels in sick bay. Dean laid there dying, lying over the seal that decidedly _did. not. break_., until help arrived.

"You were not well enough for the briefing on this new mission," Castiel said, pausing before he added, "This _last_ mission."

"Last?" Dean asked, brows furrowing.

"Fifty-six of the necessary sixty-six seals to set Lucifer walking the Earth have been broken," Castiel informed him, "We imagine this deployment of people would be the last in the campaign, one way or another."

"Damn it," Dean muttered, free hand already shakily reaching for his IV, wanting to rip it out. He shifted and grunted in pain, angling to shuffle to his feet.

Castiel put a warm, calming hand to his trembling, pained one. "I will not stop you Dean, but there is more to be said, and your medicine might as well stay where it is until I am done."

Dean met his resolved gaze and nodded shortly, lying back down, feeling dizzied.

"The last thing I heard," Dean huffed, "They were about twenty seals shy of the target. What the heck happened?"

"The last time you were fully aware before now was a week ago," Castiel pointed out, mildly, "These last few days... the demons have created a surge unlike any they have attempted before. The brutal assault upon your contingent was the first amongst many in the storm they unleashed last week. I believe they were thinking they could end it all in one fell sweep, but we held fast to our seals. It was brutal on both fronts, and now that they are regrouping, we too, have the opportunity to discuss and act upon our options."

"What options?" Dean asked, wearily, before masking it with a wicked grin, "But you know what they say, Cas. There's nothing more dangerous than a man who has lost everything. We can work with these odds, huh?"

"I am not Sam," Castiel told him, flatly.

"That's random," Dean smirked, even as his eyes begged the other to go no further--

"You need not pretend for me," Castiel said, and to Dean's relief, went on as if it was nothing, "Assignments have been set. I found it prudent to inform you that you will be separated from your brother."

"What?!" Dean exclaimed, "That's just a pile of-"

"Listen first," Castiel told him, eyes going earnest now, pinning Dean to silence, "The demons have a new spell that they have been using sporadically over the last few days. It affects just angels, to which mortal men are immune. You have your weaknesses, and we have ours. The contingents will have to be a mix of mortals and angels, Dean. There are too few of you in our fold, and so you and Sam have been assigned separate tasks."

"No way," Dean said, strategy be _damned_, because if this was the final show, and this was the toughest gig, Sam wasn't walking anywhere he wasn't steps behind. _No way_.

Castiel raised up a hand, "I am not finished."

"I don't care--"

"It might appease you to know," Castiel went on anyway, voice raised a little, the very human, subtly combative way he had learned to act around Dean, "It might appease you to know that the strategy remains two-fold. Contingents will be deployed to protect the unopened seals and are expected to fend off the demonic attacks upon them. But the search for Lilith and Alastair continues, because eliminating the leaders would cut off the head of this beast and derail the demons on a more decisive manner. You have been assigned to the protection of a seal. Sam has been assigned to search for Lilith and Alastair."

Dean's brows rose. That sounded bad, but in practice, it truly wasn't. People and angels assigned on the Lilith/Alastair-trail had a massive survival rate, precisely because encounters were few and far between since they were so hard to find. Sam running around after the elusive bitch and dick duo would be much better than Sam digging his heels into the defense of a seal, just waiting for an attack that was bound to happen and bound to be brutal because their numbers were spread thin across so many seals, while the demons just had to focus all their efforts in a few.

"I think I'm down with this," Dean murmured.

"Sam's... _disposition_," Castiel added, "Makes him our one true card left, Dean. I do not mean that our situation is desperate enough to require the use of his powers, but either way, Lilith and Alastair fear no one but him. We have to put him in the best position to defeat them. And similarly, we do not want him in a position where he can be captured and made to fight with them. Either way, he cannot be tied in the defense of an outpost."

"Not like the dregs like me, huh?" Dean chuckled, "As long as he lives, man."

"I would not sell you short," Castiel said, "You have not lost a seal since the very first one that was put in your protection."

"Samhain," Dean winced, "Yeah, that. You'll never let me forget it, huh?"

"You still own one of the best rates of success, Dean," Castiel told him, gently, "Amongst humans _or _angels."

"Not that it means anything now," Dean said, "Ten to go... God..."

"Dean, there's something else," said Castiel, "Between you and me... I believe you will be sent to the least defensible of outposts, by virtue of all that you have accomplished so far. You have a right to know."

Dean stared at him for a long, thoughtful moment.

"I might never get out of this," Dean said, quietly, wince-smiling, "I mean the Vegas money is on none of us getting out alive, but I don't even make the board, 's what you're saying."

"Your brother," Castiel murmured, "He is a very smart man. He understands all of this, and all that it could mean. He also understands that it is strategically sound, and must be attempted. What he does not understand, is why all of this is happening. Why it is your family that must sacrifice again. Answers I cannot give."

"Answers _I_'ve never been able to give either," Dean said, "What? You want me to talk to him? He hasn't really been listening to me lately." He wrinkled his nose in endeared dismay, "He's bossy."

"Everyone here is fighting of their own free will," Castiel said, "Both of you can defy the assignments and band together. Both of you can even walk out that door, live a little bit longer, change your allegiances, even... and that is your choice to make. But I pray that you do not abandon us now."

"Sam's not afraid of losing or dying," Dean said, "He won't run. Neither will I."

"He doesn't want to run," Castiel corrected him, "He wants to take you away, and there is a difference though the result is the same. You are both needed wherever you are put, Dean, and that is all. No one else can impress this upon him but you."

"I'll talk to him," Dean promised.

"Thank you."

Dean bit his lip thoughtfully, and looked up at Castiel, "So uh... this deployment. When's it gonna be?"

"We cannot expect it to be longer than twenty-four hours from now," Castiel said.

"Where are you gonna be?" Dean asked.

"I have the lethal honor of standing beside you," Castiel said, his expression unreadable.

To be continued... I think, haha. Warning though: I have my eyes set on finishing _Steps Behind_ as a tragedy.

Thanks again everybody and as always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. You guys are the best! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, enjoy the holidays and 'Til the next post!


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